


Bad Blood

by ivorydice



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Assault, Attempted Murder, Blood, Broken Bones, Father-Son Relationship, Fear of Death, Gen, Hurt!Regis, Hurt!noctis, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Mentioned brain injury, Pre-Canon, Prompto is a cameo more than anything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-19
Updated: 2018-05-19
Packaged: 2019-05-08 18:37:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 28,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14699937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivorydice/pseuds/ivorydice
Summary: “He’ll pull through this,” Gladio murmured from beside him, watching the scene unfold from just over his shoulder.Ignis didn’t bother looking at him. “Will he?”“‘Course he will,” Gladio answered. Despite his words, he didn’t sound too confident, his voice rough and a little shaken. “He’s a tough kid. He can handle this.”Knowing what happened to Noctis is one thing, but, as Ignis and Gladio soon discover, finding out the how and the why is something else entirely, especially when it could be down to something they all fear and desperately hope to be untrue.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally meant for HurtNoctWeek lol. Better late than never right???
> 
> So this fic might be considered a little different from what I normally write, but that's okay, it's good to try new things. As usual for my fics, please adhere to the tags and the warnings, although be aware there are other injuries that aren't tagged. I myself found this one to be rather tame (and I was originally worried it was brutal lol), but others might find it not so tame. Ahhh whatever, it probably doesn't matter since we're all here for the hurt right?
> 
> I just want to say a huge thanks to everyone over on tumblr who was sending me such nice messages and encouraging comments while I was writing this! You guys are amazing and I <3 you.

_  
  
(11:15pm) _  
  
When Regis came to, it was with an angry cry dying off in his aching throat and harsh lights glaring down at him from above.  
  
He grimaced, wincing at how bright everything seemed, pain flooding his senses almost instantly. Nauseating and _burning_ , it radiated up through his right leg and along the rest of his body. His muscles felt sore and strained, like they had been pushed beyond their limits. The side of his jaw ached a little.  
  
It took him a long moment to realise that his wrists and his other leg were strapped down to the bed he was lying on, unable to move.  
  
Clarus and Cor stood by him, watching with guarded expressions. Their weapons weren’t drawn, but Regis had known them long enough - had _bled_ beside them enough - to recognise when they were ready for a fight. He frowned up at them, more confused than anything else. “Clarus?” he managed to croak out. He winced again as he swallowed. His throat felt raw, painful even, as if he had been shouting himself hoarse.  
  
Clarus’s shoulders were straightened and tense, prepared for attack, and the fact that his gaze was trained entirely on _him_ of all people made Regis wary. Why would his own shield look at him like that, as if he was a danger, a _threat_?  
  
“Your Majesty,” Clarus said, voice low and serious, eyes never leaving him. “Are you yourself now? Has your mind cleared?”  
  
Regis wasn’t sure how to answer. How could they expect his mind to be clear when there was so much pain coming from his leg and his head and his whole entire _being_? He looked down at the rest of his body. Both of his wrists and his left ankle were held tightly in place with the straps; his right leg, however, was free, although trapped inside a rather large and thick splint, but he doubted he could move that leg even if he wanted to. It hurt enough just lying still.  
  
Regis didn’t consider himself _that_ sort of king, the kind that would hold his position above others with an air of superiority, as if he was _better_ , but the fact that they had him strapped down in the first place was a surprise and maybe a little insulting.  
  
He was their _king_ , and they were both loyal to a fault. So why was any of this happening?  
  
He tugged at his wrists meaningfully, trying to muster as hard an expression as he could. “What is this?”  
  
“Are you yourself right now?” Clarus asked again, a little firmer this time.  
  
“What does that _mean_?” Regis stared up at him. They were both swaying images before him and he had to blink to fight back the dizziness. “I don’t understand.”  
  
Clarus stared back at him, and then glanced over at Cor. “Any word from the doctors yet?”  
  
Cor shook his head. “Nothing.”  
  
Clarus muttered a curse under his breath before he turned back to Regis. “I assure you, Your Majesty, I enjoy this about as much as you do, but you understand that I cannot afford to release you until we are certain you are back to yourself.”  
  
Regis shook his head. No, he _didn’t_ understand. What had happened? What weren’t they telling him? His mind was muddled, memories foggy and difficult to latch onto. He tugged at his wrists again, annoyed with the way his bonds seemed to be so tightly done, just shy from cutting off his blood circulation. He glared down at the straps, and then paused, unclenching his hands carefully. Sharp spikes of pain ran along his fingers, his knuckles, down to his wrists.  
  
His knuckles were split open, already beginning to bruise, dried blood coating his skin. As if he had been hitting something relentlessly.  
  
Regis’s heart pounded in his chest, sweat beading along his forehead. What did they mean, those bruises? What had he done?  
  
What had he _done_?  
  
  
~ &~  
  
  
Down the hall from the king, Ignis stood in the doorway to Noctis’s room. He leaned against the doorframe, not quite able to hold himself up, his head light and his stomach queasy with anxiety. Adrenaline was fast fading from him now and it was leaving him a little shaky. He ran his hand through his hair and tugged on the roots a little, letting out a shaky breath as he willed his heart to steady, but still he couldn’t look away from what was going on inside the room.  
  
Noctis looked so small on the bed, doctors and nurses surrounding him and rattling off medical jargon in quick, urgent bursts. He lay unmoving in the center of it all, face almost peaceful, as if he was simply sleeping. He hadn’t moved in a while now, not since he had been brought in, and there was very little chance he would be moving again for some time, not with them hooking him up to an IV with some very strong painkillers and sedatives.  
  
Ignis winced, but he didn’t look away as they checked over Noctis’s injuries. Over his swollen and bloodied face, his injured arm, his shoulders. Others were cutting off his suit jacket to begin checking over the rest of his body. Blood was already staining the bed beneath him, a stark, sickening red against crisp white sheets.  
  
“He’ll pull through this,” Gladio murmured from beside him, watching the scene unfold from just over his shoulder.  
  
Ignis didn’t bother looking at him. “Will he?”  
  
“‘Course he will,” Gladio answered. Despite his words, he didn’t sound too confident, his voice rough and a little shaken. “He’s a tough kid. He can handle this.”  
  
“And if they’re right?” Ignis watched as the doctors cut off Noctis’s shirt next, revealing the damaged and swollen flesh underneath. “If he has internal bleeding? If his _brain_ has been damaged?”  
  
“He’ll pull through,” Gladio repeated, a little firmer this time.  
  
Ignis wished he had his faith. Normally, he would have done. If it had been any other time, then he would have been ready to convince every doctor and nurse, everyone in this entire damned Citadel, that Noctis was _strong_ and he would brush this off in no time. He had been strong enough to recover from a daemon attack after all, and he had been a child then. He had persisted and he had managed to fight his way through recovery, through the pain and relearning how to walk all over again. He had defied every doctor’s worst expectations.  
  
But Ignis couldn’t stop the doubt gnawing its way through him now. It was hard to keep his hopes up when he couldn’t get that image out of his head; Noctis had been so _lifeless_ when they had found him, so still, unresponsive. He had never seen him that way before, _ever,_ and for one heart stopping moment Ignis had thought they had been too late, too slow, and Noctis had been lying there _dead_ on the floor.  
  
And he seemed so lifeless now, lying still on the hospital bed. He had regained consciousness briefly when the medics had brought him in, but he had been nowhere close to being aware of what was going on around him. The only thing he had done was scrunch up his face and slur out a soft, pained “Dad” over and over again.  
  
A hand clasped his shoulder and squeezed gently. “I say we go looking for answers on how this happened,” Gladio murmured. “There’s nothing we can do for him right now.”  
  
Ignis shrugged the hand off. “I want to be here for him. For when he wakes up.”  
  
“Which ain’t gonna be for a while, we both know that.” Gladio’s eyes were kind when Ignis turned to look at him, but there was something tense in his jaw. “You’re not doin’ yourself any favours by watching this. He’s in good hands now, so let the doctors do their jobs. Meanwhile, we should do _ours_. Someone needs to be brought to justice for this.”  
  
“Your father already has an investigation put into place,” Ignis pointed out.  
  
“Your point being?” Gladio crossed his arms over his chest. “C’mon, don’t say you haven’t got your suspicions about all this. Shit just happens to go down _tonight_ , on _this_ weekend?”  
  
Ignis glanced over at the doctors again, then down at the floor. “You think one of our guests is behind this,” he murmured, keeping his voice low, all too aware that anyone could be listening in on them out here in the corridor.  
  
Gladio raised an eyebrow. “You don’t?”  
  
Ignis would be lying if he said that he didn’t have his suspicions or that he didn’t feel the need to find answers on just how this had happened. _If_ they could. If there were any answers to find. “And if it wasn’t?” he asked quietly. “If it was the—”  
  
“You know that’s not possible,” Gladio cut him off. “Not without some sort of outside influence.”  
  
Ignis gave him a slight nod, though it felt a little stiff and jerky. He looked back over at Noctis, heart aching in his chest. The skin on his face looked painful with the way it was swelling up, and bruises were already beginning to form underneath the blood. Bruises and blood which, he knew, would have an echo on his father’s knuckles.  
  
“Come on, let’s go.” Gladio said softly. “He’ll be okay.”  
  
Ignis sighed. “He’d better be.” He gave himself a few seconds longer to stare, silently willing Noctis to be strong through this like he had been strong as a child, and then he turned, following Gladio out of the medical wing.  
  
  
~ &~  
  
  
_(Two days earlier)_  
  
“Do you remember everything I told you?”  
  
Noctis just barely fought back the urge to roll his eyes, watching his reflection as he shrugged into his jacket, moving his hands to fasten up the buttons. “Yes,” he said, a little exasperated, “and everything Dad told me. And Cor, and Clarus, and Gladio, and everyone _else_ who feels the need to remind me of the things I already know.”  
  
Behind him, Ignis tutted, and he came closer to quickly swipe a small brush over the shoulders of Noctis’s jacket, despite the fact that it was already crisp clean. As if the staff would ever bring him clothes that had even the _slightest_ bit of lint or dirt clinging to it.  
  
Still, Ignis wouldn’t quite his fussing. He moved around him to straighten the collar, even as Noctis glared at him and tried to bat his fingers out of the way. “ _Geez_ , Specs. _Stop_. I can do it myself.”  
  
There was an amused glint in Ignis’s eyes. “I’m simply trying to make it easier on you, _Your Highness_.”  
  
Noctis raised an eyebrow, trying to fight back his own amusement as he said, “Is that disrespect I hear in your tone there, Scientia? I could have you arrested for that, y’know.”  
  
“I would _never_ ,” Ignis shot back. His lips were quirking upwards slightly and he was running that brush over Noctis’s jacket one more time. Noctis sighed and let him get on with it.  
  
Eventually, he stood back, eyes moving up and down as he took Noctis in, nodding slightly.  
  
Noctis snorted. “Does it meet your approval?”  
  
“Just barely,” Ignis replied, deadpan.  
  
Noctis shook his head and went back to his reflection, fiddling with the cuff of his jacket. It wasn’t quite a suit, but it was a visible step up from his more casual wardrobe - something which, apparently, wasn’t very acceptable attire for the occasion. He also had to forego any gel or spray in his hair, the way he had been experimenting with lately on weekends and times he wasn’t in school, and it looked a little weird being without it now, with his hair flopping down against his face.  
  
Not that his dad would mind if he _did_ use any, as content as he seemed to be to let Noctis style himself however he wanted. But Noctis knew there were others, in his father’s court and possibly even their special guest, that preferred things to be a little more traditional and could consider such styling too unbecoming of a prince.  
  
His dad had been looking forward to this visit for a while now. Noctis wasn’t going to do anything that could have even the slightest potential of ruining it for him, hairstyles included.  
  
Lord Christos Silvius was from quite a notable family in Accordo. His father, Jean-Luc, had been a fighting instructor and mentor to both Noctis’s own dad and to Clarus back when they were young, and they had been good friends until his unfortunate death some twenty-three years ago. Recently, when Insomnia had been investigating potential new business and trade proposals overseas, Lord Silvius Jr had reached out, had offered a partnership with some of his own smaller businesses and had suggested he could possibly look into a few other avenues for them too.  
  
It wasn’t long before Noctis’s dad had offered to host Christos as a special guest for a weekend, both as a way to show his thanks and as a way for them to reunite for the first time in decades so that they could honour Jean-Luc’s memory together.  
  
Noctis didn’t know how a _party_ could be the right way to do all of that, but there was nothing he could really do except grin and bear it.  
  
“Okay, I think I’m ready,” he said, nodding at his reflection. Wearing an actual formal outfit just to greet their guest at the door seemed a little excessive, but at least it wasn’t as flashy as some of the other things in his wardrobe. And it was far better, he supposed, than showing up in a t-shirt and jeans.  
  
“Good,” Ignis said. He was looking at his phone, frowning a little. “I’ve just been notified that our guest has entered the city, so we’d best be on our way.”  
  
It was a good thing Insomnia was so large, and thus would give them some extra time until their guest actually arrived, otherwise they would have had to run all the way down to the main steps. Instead, they could maintain a good pace, walking their way towards one of the elevators and calmly taking it down to the ground level, where they made their way through the foyer and out to the main steps.  
  
His dad was already waiting there, with Clarus and Cor by his side, a few other high ranking crownsguard and council members nearby. Gladio was there too, standing just behind the spot Noctis would have to take up, half-turning and sending him an amused expression as he and Ignis came out of the main doors.  
  
His dad was smiling down at him as Noctis came to stand by his side, and it sounded genuine when he said, “I’m glad you could join us.”  
  
Noctis raised his eyebrows and nodded, sending him a brief grin. “Yeah, of course,” he said. “Wouldn’t miss it.”  
  
He shifted his stance so his shoulders were straightened, held his head high, clasping his hands and holding them in front of him. He fought the urge to check if anyone was staring at him, already feeling a little annoyed that people seemed to forget he had years of court etiquette training and lessons instilled into him.  
  
He hated it. He hated all the rules and the traditions. They seemed horribly archaic at this point, and he hated the way they seemed to draw an invisible line between his family and the rest of the world—but this was for his dad, and so he would obey every rule in existence.  
  
They didn’t have to wait long until multiple cars were let into the Citadel grounds, escorted by two crownsguard vehicles guarding the front and back of the convoy. They came to a slow stop directly below the steps, a number of servants climbing out and lining up in front of the cars.  
  
Christos Silvius, as he stepped out of the middle car, buttoning up his fine coat and blinking up at the Citadel, was not quite what Noctis had been expecting. Tall and dressed in a sharp suit underneath his long coat, his hair was slicked back and his beard finely trimmed and shaped. He didn’t seem to be any older than Cor, perhaps even a few years younger.  
  
And he walked up the steps to the Citadel with a pleasant smile on his face, hands already reaching out. “Your Majesty,” he said, and Noctis tried not to stare too obviously as Christos and his dad clasped hands tightly. “How good it is to see you again after all these years.”  
  
“The feeling is very mutual, I assure you, Christos,” his dad said, voice warm, a smile on his face. “It has been far too long.”  
  
“Indeed,” Christos said. He turned, nodding at Clarus and Cor, shaking their hands in turn. “Lord Amicitia, Marshal Leonis, likewise, it is a joy to see you both. I must thank you for the security measures you had put in place for our travel here. I imagine it wasn’t easy to implement.”  
  
“I trust nothing went wrong on your journey?” Cor said, eyes hooded with amusement. “I recall your father lamenting once or twice about your underrage driving excursions, and the price his car paid for it.”  
  
Christos let out a bark of laughter. “How fortunate then that I wasn’t the one driving. Everything went smoothly, thanks to the both of you and your tireless efforts.”  
  
Noctis fought the urge to chew on his lip as Christos turned then, his eyes locking onto him. His dad’s hand came up to rest on his shoulder. “Might I introduce my son,” he said, smoothly and without missing a beat. “This is Noctis.”  
  
Christos held out a hand. “Your Highness, it is an honour to meet you.”  
  
Noctis took it, giving it a firm shake. “Likewise,” he said. Knowing what was expected of him now, he motioned to Gladio and Ignis standing by him. “And allow me to introduce you to my shield, Gladiolus Amicitia, and my retainer and personal advisor, Ignis Scientia.”  
  
“My, you’re taller than your father,” Christos said, eyeing Gladio up and down with a smile. “I didn’t think that was possible. There must be something in those genes of yours.”  
  
“Careful now,” Clarus called out. “We’re not bringing this up again.”  
  
Christos merely chuckled and looked back at Noctis curiously, although he didn’t say anything. For a split second, Noctis panicked. Was he supposed to say something? Hadn’t he done everything properly? Had he missed something? He swallowed back the awkwardness coming over him, forcing himself to keep still and ignoring the urge to clear his throat. “I’ve heard about you, and your father,” he said quietly. “You have my condolences for your loss.”  
  
“You are too kind,” Christos smiled at him. “How old are you, may I ask?”  
  
Noctis blinked. “Fifteen.”  
  
“Around the same age I was when I met your father, then,” he grinned back. “Though I can’t say I see much of you in him, Your Majesty.”  
  
His dad was the one who answered. “He takes more after his mother.”  
  
“How fortunate for you,” Christos said to Noctis with a mischievous wink. “It would be a curse to look like this old man here.”  
  
“Starting with the age jokes already?” Clarus retorted. His voice was unreadable, and Noctis looked over at him, startled, but there was an amused smile on his lips as he said, “There are a few we could say about you, you whippersnapper.”  
  
His dad made an odd noise, like a snort or a cough, and he took his hand away from Noctis’s shoulder after a brief squeeze. “Please,” he said with a smile, “allow us to save the jokes for later. You must be weary from your travels.”  
  
“Ah,” Christos turned a grin on him. “Trying to get rid of me already? Is this the royal equivalent of ‘go to your room’?”  
  
Again, that noise, like his dad was struggling to hold back a laugh. He made a notion with his hand, and the staff lined up just inside the foyer came rushing out. “My staff will see to your every need, and to the needs of your own staff. Any assistance you require during your stay, you need only ask.”  
  
“That’s very generous of you, Your Majesty, thank you,” Christos nodded, watching as the Citadel’s staff began to work with his own in getting the baggage from the cars and carrying it inside.  
  
“Come,” his dad turned and gestured towards the doors. “Allow us to move inside, there’s no need to loiter around on the steps like this.”  
  
The two of them broke away from the group, walking together through the main doors, and that was a large enough sign that everyone else was dismissed back to their regular duties for now. Clarus, of course, followed straight after, Cor alongside him, while the rest of the staff went to work either with their own tasks, or with helping Christos’s retinue.  
  
Noctis was left with Ignis and Gladio, and the three of them made their way back into the Citadel slowly. “That went better than expected,” Noctis muttered, more to himself than anyone else.  
  
Ignis sounded amused as he said, “Quite. I must admit, I was a little surprised at how... _jovial_ he seems. Certainly an interesting character.”  
  
“He’s younger than I expected,” Noctis said.  
  
“What _did_ you expect?” Gladio teased from just over his shoulder. “He was a teenager when he met our dads, even if that was quite a while ago now.”  
  
Noctis glanced over his shoulder at him curiously. “How’d you know?”  
  
“My old man told me about him over dinner last night,” Gladio shrugged. “Seems Lord Silvius senior is still well respected by him, and by your dad, even now. He saved their lives back in the day. You know. During the war.”  
  
His own dad barely ever talked about things that happened back then. While he had mentioned Jean-Luc had been their fighting instructor for years before moving back to his family in Accordo, his dad hadn’t elaborated on anything further than that. Noctis frowned, curious about it, but he wasn’t sure if he could ask his dad about any of it. He always seemed to grow serious, solemn and sad about things that went on back in the war. Then again, a lot of things seemed to make him sad.  
  
“Speaking of dinner,” Ignis said. He was looking down at his phone as they walked, and how he still managed to know exactly where he was going was beyond Noctis. “Considering the nature of this visit, you are automatically invited to dine with your father and Lord Silvius tonight. Tomorrow is the social dinner, and Sunday night will be the party, those are both a mandatory for all of us. However, the private dinner tonight is optional for you. Will you be attending or would you like to abstain?”  
  
Noctis fought back the urge to groan. On one hand, while they wouldn’t be alone, he would be able to get a chance to have dinner with his dad - which was becoming a more rare event as the days went on. But on the other hand, would his presence be appreciated or would it be a nuisance? He didn’t want to intrude on any chances his dad and Christos had to catch up and reacquaint themselves.  
  
He could always go for a short while, test the mood of the dinner, and then excuse himself if he found that his presence was unwelcome. The last time he and his father had managed to have dinner together - despite living in the same building as each other - had to have at least been a month ago.  
  
“I’ll go,” Noctis said.  
  
Ignis seemed to approve, giving him a small smile. “Excellent. I’ll make the arrangements immediately.”  
  
“Better behave yourself at dinner,” Gladio teased. “Maybe eat some of those greens you seem to hate so much. Wouldn’t want to make a bad impression on the special guest, after all.”  
  
Ignis scoffed. “It would certainly be an improvement to your diet. Your body will be more than thankful for it, I’m sure.”  
  
Noctis _did_ groan this time, and only earned himself more jibes from the both of them and an elbow to the ribs from Gladio.  
  
  
~ &~  
  
  
Dinner, in Regis’s opinion, went rather well.  
  
Noctis turning up was a delight, even more so that he was finely dressed and sticking to every bit of royal training that had been instilled into him over the years. It warmed Regis to know that he was putting so much effort into this, and even more so that Noctis and Christos seemed to get along rather well.  
  
Christos, of course, wasn’t _quite_ how Regis remembered him, but that was to be expected. It had been over twenty years ago and he had been a teenager at the time, a little moody perhaps but also incredibly curious about the foreign prince his father had trained. And he was bound to have been through some changes throughout his life since then; it was just a relief to know that his father’s death hadn’t caused any ill will between them both. The thought had weighed heavily on Regis’s mind for a long time now, and it was freeing to finally be able to let go of it.  
  
“And you go to a public school, is that correct?” Christos was saying. “How do you find that?”  
  
Noctis shrugged, then seemed to think that wasn’t a good enough response. He straightened in his chair, saying, “It’s fine. People stare at me sometimes, but it’s a good school. I like it.”  
  
Christos smiled, cutting into his steak. “I imagine it can be a bit of a hassle to travel in and out of the Citadel every day, though. Goodness knows it was an effort just to come in.”  
  
Regis noticed Noctis’s small glance towards him then and smiled weakly, all too aware of his son’s recent request to be able to move out of the Citadel and into his own place somewhere within the city. It would be easier to travel, he had claimed, and he wanted the chance to gain some independence. While he could understand the need to escape how oppressive the Citadel life could feel sometimes, Regis was still a little hesitant on the decision.  
  
Most of his council thought it wasn’t the best idea, claimed Noctis would be put in a far more dangerous position if he was too far away from the Citadel. How could the crownsguard move to intercept any danger that might befall him, they argued. Still, Regis was torn between the need to let Noctis live his life the way he wanted to, and the urge to keep him close, keep him _safe_.  
  
“We may be looking into other ways to make his travel easier,” Regis said eventually, and he ate a piece of his own steak so he wouldn’t have to elaborate further. When Noctis gave him another, more curious glance, Regis simply responded with another smile.  
  
Noctis cleared his throat and turned back to Christos. “I assume you didn’t attend a public school then?” he asked, voice politely curious, and Regis couldn’t have felt more proud of him. Noctis tended to be a little more reserved around guests, more so than he usually was, but the fact that he was trying to make an effort sent a flash of fondness through him.  
  
“No,” Christos chuckled. “I had private tutoring. A tradition in the family.”  
  
“Ah,” Noctis nodded. “I see.”  
  
“I hope you kept up with your studies,” Regis couldn’t help but tease. “I know your father was set upon nothing but the best for you.”  
  
Christos smiled back. “Of course, Your Majesty. In fact, I managed to move onto one of Accordo’s finest universities afterwards, and you’ve seen how I’m faring now. My companies may be small, but they have good business and they’re doing well.”  
  
Regis considered his words carefully, all too aware that this weekend was the first time they had seen each other since Jean-Luc’s death. “I know he was away from you for quite a long time while he was here training Clarus and I, but your father talked about you often. He was excited to have a son, and he had many plans for you. I imagine he would be more than proud of what you have achieved for yourself.”  
  
“That is very kind of you to say, Your Majesty,” Christos said, a little more solemn now, voice a little quieter. “And I’m sure he would be more than pleased about this potential business partnership between the two of us. I know he would have preferred our families to be close allies, even with the Empire breathing down our necks.”  
  
Noctis was a little quiet, trying to push his peas off to the side of his plate without anyone noticing. “I’ve heard a little about your father’s stay here,” he said, glancing up at Christos. “He sounded like a great man.”  
  
Regis hummed. “He _was_ a great man.”  
  
Christos reached out for his glass, taking a sip of his wine before he said, “Naturally, I’m inclined to agree, but then again I may be a little biased on the matter.”  
  
Regis chuckled at that, resisting the urge to glance over at his son. “Aren’t we all a little biased when it comes to family?”  
  
“I’ll drink to that, Your Majesty.”  
  
Christos was the first one to retire for the night, exhausted from his travels and needing the rest. Regis would have liked to retire himself - it _was_ beginning to get late after all and he was aching for a hot bath before bed - but he and Noctis rarely had time together these days. So he relished in his son’s company instead, as sleepy as they both were.  
  
Noctis had pulled his chair up closer to Regis’s so they could talk a little more quietly, despite the fact that the room was empty save for Clarus and Gladiolus guarding the doors and the servants that came in and out to clear the dinner plates up.  
  
“He seems nice,” Noctis said around a forkful of cake, watching him carefully.  
  
Regis smiled. “I’m glad you think so,” he answered. “His father was certainly an honourable man. One of the finest men I ever met. It’s heartening to see how much his son takes after him.”  
  
Noctis was silent for a moment, twirling his fork around, watching as the prongs played with some of the cream decorating his cake slice. “How did he die?” he asked eventually, glancing up at him as if fearful of reproach for asking, or maybe even fearful of an answer.  
  
“Ah,” Regis gave him a weaker smile at that, unsurprised at the question, and he paused to scoop up some of his pudding. Normally he wouldn’t care for the stuff, but it was so sweet that its texture was ignorable. Not sweet enough, however, to chase away the bitter taste of regret as he said, “He died saving my life.”  
  
Noctis’s eyes were cautious, already too aware of how little Regis cared to talk about the old days. There were too many painful memories from back then. It had been good at first, it had been _fun_ , up until things had broken and had become far too stressful, up until things all went to hell and people started dying.  
  
Noctis ate another forkful of his cake and swallowed it down. “In the war?” he asked gently.  
  
“Yes,” Regis sighed. “In the war. Jean-Luc was kind enough to host us while we were in Accordo, kept us safe and out of the eyes of imperial spies. He helped smuggle us back out once my father ordered us to return home, but, unfortunately, we ran into a bit of trouble along the way. It cost him his life to get us out safely.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” Noctis murmured.  
  
Regis blinked, surprised. “Whatever for?”  
  
Noctis shifted a little, doing that shrug movement he made when he was trying to appear indifferent. “He was your friend,” he said. “You lost him too. So I’m sorry.”  
  
It never failed to surprise him just how compassionate Noctis could be sometimes, an echo of the bright eyed, happy child he’d once been. He had been dealt a horrible card in life - worse than most could ever imagine - and still he was growing into a kind young man. It made something in his chest ache to witness it.  
  
“Thank you,” Regis said gently. Anticipating the awkward way Noctis was shifting, he motioned to his dessert bowl with his spoon. “Are you certain you wouldn’t like to try some?”  
  
Noctis pulled a face. “Ew, no. Too mushy.”  
  
Regis snorted in amusement. Fifteen years old and he was _still_ such a picky eater. It was no wonder Ignis looked so exasperated sometimes. “Well then, eat your cake before I do.”  
  
“You wouldn’t dare,” Noctis glared at him, but he was quick to return to his own dessert, and he might have pulled his bowl a little closer to himself protectively.  
  
  
~ &~  
  
  
_(Now)_  
  
The party was long over by now, although all of the attending guests were still being kept inside the ballroom, with the crownsguard _and_ some of the kingsglaive keeping them under guard. Ignis winced at the idea of it. While it was a necessary precaution considering both the king and the prince were laid up in the medical wing, it would still no doubt put their guests on edge, alert them to the fact that something was terribly wrong.  
  
He and Gladio peered in through the gap in the doors to see what was going on inside, ignoring the raised eyebrows they earned from the guards stationed on either side of them. Some of the guests were talking amongst themselves, sitting at tables and only half-heartedly picking at food and sipping their drinks, while a few others were trying to glean information from the crownsguard and kingsglaive members inside.  
  
Christos was among them, arms folded across his chest, a frown on his face. “Please, at least tell us what’s going on here,” he said, standing close enough to the doors that his angry tone drifted through. “Where is the king? Is he in danger?”  
  
The crownsguard he was speaking to simply shook his head. “Again, it is not your concern, Lord Silvius. Please take a seat with the others.”  
  
Christos looked annoyed as he turned away, two nervous female attendants following him as he crossed the room, but there had also been something like concern in his voice.  
  
Ignis frowned, leaning away from the doors and making his way across the hall to the large windows overlooking the city. He watched as a flash of lights flew past, a cold feeling running down his spine at the sight of them. Multiple helicopters were circling the Citadel now, keeping watch from above in case anyone tried to escape the building. Again, like the many guards inside the ballroom, a necessary precaution. The press might have some questions at a later date - if speculations weren’t already going around, especially on the internet -  but they needed as many eyes available as possible and they couldn’t afford to worry about such things at the moment.  
  
“What are you thinking?” Gladio murmured as he followed him. “That he’s innocent, or that he’s just a really good actor?”  
  
Ignis sighed and shook his head, not knowing how to answer. Unfortunately, he didn’t know enough about the man to really decide on either option. He knew the facts, that Lord Silvius was a businessman from a notable family in Accordo, that his father had acted as a fighting mentor to King Regis and to Clarus Amicitia many years ago. But that was all they were. Facts.  
  
From what he had gleaned over the weekend, he had found that he treated his staff, his businesses and his family well. From all angles, it seemed that he was a reputable person, a _good_ person.  
  
And yet this. The king and the prince both heavily injured and in hospital, coincidentally on the weekend of Christos’s visit.  
  
His attitude in front of the Citadel upon his arrival, and during the other times Ignis had been able to see him, had seemed _genuine_ , without even the slightest hint of malice being detected.  
  
Like Gladio said, either he was completely innocent and they were looking to pin very serious accusations on the wrong man entirely, or he was an incredibly good actor.  
  
They decided to retrace Noctis’s steps from earlier. He had been at the party with them, talking with Christos himself, when he had politely excused himself after checking his phone. Ignis had seen the movement, had been keeping an eye on him from the sidelines the whole time in case he needed anything, and, upon questioning him, Noctis had simply said that his dad needed to see him in his private quarters.  
  
The king _had_ been notably late to the party—a party he’d had a rather large hand in personally arranging. Ignis had found it odd at the time, especially considering Clarus and Cor had been present. Unfortunately - and he cursed himself for it now - he hadn’t found it alarming, a warning sign that something was wrong. As odd as it had been, he had simply brushed it off as the king running a little late, perhaps even trying to finalise some paperwork for the business deal.  
  
There were more crownsguard officers at the king’s room. The senior member, Claudia, took one look at them and shook her head. “No way,” she snapped out, “I want you boys out of here. We can handle this on our own.”  
  
“Oh, come on,” Gladio shot back. “I think we of all people have a right to find out what the hell’s going on around here.”  
  
“There’s nothing else to find,” Claudia said. “We’re not ameteur detectives here, boys. We know what to look for.”  
  
Did they? Tonight’s events weren’t exactly a recurring thing within the Citadel. In fact, it was downright rare that they ever had anything happen that even remotely needed an investigation taking place. Ignis held his tongue, instead peering where he could see just inside the doorway, his stomach already twisting in knots at the remains of a smashed vase lying on the floor. “And what did you find?” he asked quietly.  
  
Claudia sighed heavily, looking away for a moment, and then nodded her head towards the door, leading the way inside. “Honestly? Nothing but a smashed up room, as if a fight had taken place.” Her lips pressed together grimly. “Of course, that lines up with what happened.”  
  
Ignis fought the urge to bite on his lip as he reluctantly stepped inside. It wasn’t as bad as he had expected, even if it was everything he had feared. He made his way carefully into the study, where most of the crownsguard were, taking in the scene before him. The desk opposite the door was a mess, papers and other objects strewn about all over the wooden surface and the floor beneath. Chairs were knocked over, lamps tipped and lying askew. There was a painting hanging precariously, the glass covering marred with cracks.  
  
There was a patch of blood on the wall. More, smaller droplets staining the carpet and leading a small trail out of the room.  
  
“We can’t find any signs of forced entry,” Claudia said. “Either with the windows, or the door. The king’s bedroom is untouched and clean of anything suspicious.”  
  
Gladio was walking around the room, taking it all in with solemn eyes. “And the crownsguard were nowhere nearby to hear anything going on,” he said. It was admirable, Ignis thought, how strong and in place his mask was. This whole situation had to be killing him just as much as it was Ignis.  
  
“No,” Claudia answered. “Considering the king was to be at the party, most guards were stationed near the ballroom and the surrounding areas instead.”  
  
They looked around, stepping out of the way of other crownsguard officers, trying not to intrude too much. Other than the destruction, nothing seemed out of place or out of the ordinary. There were no signs that anyone else had been in the room that could have caused this, no signs that there had been any sort of outside influence.  
  
It had just been Noctis and his father. And then violence. Blood and destruction.  
  
Ignis had known them both for over ten years now. They certainly had their ups and downs; both father and son alike could be rather distant with each other and they definitely had their disagreements on certain matters - it had been only yesterday when rumours of Noctis storming out of his father’s office had been circulating briefly within the staff.  
  
Despite that, there had never been any doubt how much they cared for one another. Ignis had witnessed it first hand, from the way Noctis would try and hide his disappointment whenever they couldn’t spend time together, to the way Regis was constantly checking up on his son, cornering Ignis after meetings so he could ask after him and smile whenever he heard of how well Noctis was doing in school, of any new developments in his life.  
  
All of that and yet, somehow, a domestic incident had taken place tonight sometime after Noctis had stepped inside of this room, and it had landed them both in the medical wing with terrible injuries.  
  
It _had_ to be an outside influence.  
  
And yet, if it was, whoever the culprit was had covered their tracks well.  
  
  
~ &~  
  
  
“Will someone please tell me what the _bloody_ hell is going on here?” Regis snapped out. His tone didn’t seem to be helping matters, however, for the look Clarus settled on him was a grave one. But pain and confusion were fast becoming overwhelming, frustrating him to the point where he was close to _ordering_ them to obey him.  
  
Nurses had come in to check on him again and again. They had taken multiple samples of blood, had shone lights in his eyes, had rattled off all kinds of questions that were meant to test his memory - what was his name, what was the date, where was he, could he recognise those around him. It left Regis with a sour taste in his mouth.  
  
“What’s the situation with the party?” Clarus was asking Cor. They stood off to the side, nearer to the door, and Regis resigned himself to staring up at the ceiling and listening in. They seemed to be quite intent on ignoring him for now. He tried to ignore the hurt that settled into his chest at that fact.  
  
His head hurt. _So_ very much. He wished it would stop.  
  
“The guests are still being kept in the ballroom and are now under guard,” Cor said. “Any phones and ways of communication have been confiscated, just in case. A majority of the crownsguard and kingsglaive have moved into guarding positions all around the Citadel, and we have helicopters circling. We’re on complete lockdown, just as you asked.”  
  
“Good,” Clarus said. “No one is to set _foot_ outside of the Citadel grounds, not even one of our own. There isn’t a single possibility that this didn’t happen without outside interference.”  
  
“The doctors are still running their tests with the blood samples, but so far everything they’ve tested for has come back negative.” Cor’s voice was rather grim, filled with apprehension. “They’re talking about taking other routes; have him put under sedation and maybe take him down for x-rays.”  
  
Clarus let out a frustrated noise. “They cannot put him under sedation, or on any other type of drug, until they are one hundred percent sure his blood is clear of anything.”  
  
“True, but we need to explore all possible avenues here.”  
  
They were silent for a moment, and Regis grit his teeth, desperate to know what had happened, what was going on, what they were talking about, because nothing of what they were saying had any good implications. He tried to search his memories, for _anything_ that could have given him a clue, but some of his last clear memories were of getting ready for the party. After that—nothing.  
  
He sighed, wondering if it would be worth trying to sleep - _anything_ to rid himself of the pain shooting up and down his leg like fire - but then Clarus said, “The prince?”  
  
A beat, and then Cor’s voice was a little softer. “He’s still being treated. The doctors...are concerned.”  
  
Regis’s heart just about froze in his chest. “What?” he turned his head to look at them both, but they were still ignoring him. “Clarus! _What_?”  
  
Clarus finally turned back to him, approaching the bed with a hard look. “Are your memories coming back to you yet? Is there anything important you can recall that might help us?”  
  
“I _cannot_ help you if you refuse to tell me what happened,” Regis snapped back. “Clarus, where is Noct? What happened to him?”  
  
“Your Majesty—”  
  
“Where’s _my son_?”  
  
“Down the hall,” Clarus sighed. “I won’t lie to you, he’s in pretty rough shape.”  
  
Rough shape? What had _happened_ to them? He looked down at his bruised and bloodied knuckles again, at his broken leg. There must have been some sort of attack, a severe enough incident if it had caused Clarus to order the Citadel on complete lockdown, but the fact that they weren’t sharing information with him - with _him_ , the _king_ \- was beyond worrying.  
  
Regis swallowed thickly. “Tell me—what happened?”  
  
Cor’s face was grim when he said, “What do you remember?”  
  
He remembered getting ready for the party, he remembered buttoning up his shirt and his suit jacket, and then—nothing. It was blurry when he tried to remember further, like a wash of colours, a ruined oil painting, and it left him with an uneasy feeling.  
  
Regis pressed his lips together and shook his head.  
  
It seemed to be answer enough for them. Clarus sighed and eyed him carefully. “This won’t be easy for you to hear, I’m afraid,” he said, and there was something sympathetic in his expression now. “You attacked your son, Regis. You tried to kill him.”  
  
No.  
  
No, he would _never_ do that. He could never do anything remotely like that. If there was one thing in this entire world that he would gladly give his _life_ to protect, then it was his boy.  
  
“Lies,” Regis croaked out.  
  
“I only wish that were true,” Clarus said. He glanced down for a moment, before stepping closer to the bed, wrapping his hand around the side railing. “I _need_ you to remember what happened tonight. I need to know why you did this.”  
  
But he _couldn’t_ remember what had happened, and there wasn’t a single chance in hell he would have ever laid a hand on Noctis anyway. It was _preposterous_ , unthinkable. Clarus and Cor, _of all people_ —they should have known that. They knew how much he loved his son.  
  
But then why else would they have him strapped to a bed, regarding him as a danger? Clarus, as the king’s shield, would do anything to protect him, had sworn many times over the years that he would gladly give his life in service to the king, to _him_. The only time that promise could ever have the potential of being broken would be to protect the _prince_ , the only heir to the throne. If there was anyone in the entire kingdom who was more important than Regis, then it was his son.  
  
He looked down at his split knuckles.  
  
“Regis,” Clarus said, his voice rough and pleading now. Regis winced at the tone. Despite his professional mask, he had clearly been shaken by whatever had happened tonight, and that was unusual even for him. “ _Please_. You need to tell us what you remember.”  
  
“My son,” Regis swallowed past the lump growing in his throat. “How is he?”  
  
Clarus sighed again, and he looked aged when Regis glanced up at him. “It’s hard to be sure of anything yet,” he said. “It didn’t look good when we found you both. The doctors say there may be...possible complications.”  
  
Possible complications. As if Noctis deserved anything like that ever again after what he had already been through during his short time in this world. Regis thought back to that awful night, when a daemon had attacked his son and had left him lying there in a pool of blood, barely responsive. It had taken him over a year to get back to being physically healthy and able to walk on his own again, and that had been after he had received healing from the Oracle herself.  
  
And now, apparently, Regis had put him back in a hospital bed. Where he might have _possible complications_.  
  
He was worse than any daemon.  
  
“Regis.”  
  
There was a suspicious stinging sensation in his eyes, and his throat hurt even worse, his voice hoarse as he choked out, “I don’t remember.”  
  
Clarus’s hand came down then, gently rested on his shoulder, and his eyes were soft. “Try.”  
  
  
~ &~  
  
  
_(One day earlier)_  
  
Dinner might have been only a few hours away, and he needed to begin getting ready soon, but Noctis remained in one of the many training halls and simply focused on beating the training dummy with his sword. His phone was lying tangled up with his jacket over to the side of the room, occasionally letting out soft jingles and vibrations, but he ignored it, instead focused on the sounds of his breathing and his footsteps and wood slamming against wood.  
  
He wasn’t even required to train today. Gladio was off somewhere, doing whatever it was that Gladio did in his spare time. A good thing, maybe. If he found out that Noctis was running through his drills on his own, then he might have started asking questions, and he didn’t particularly feel like talking at the moment.  
  
So he continued going through his drills. All of the attacks they had learned over the years, practicing his footwork, the swing of his sword. He attacked the training dummy until it seemed like splinters would start flying off any second, until his muscles were burning with the strain of it, sweat beading along his skin and in his hair.  
  
It was stupid to be angry, but he felt it anyway. Angry at the fact that he basically had to jump through hoops to request his own apartment in the city, angry that the council could have such an influence that his dad had to consider their opinions too, sometimes hold them higher than Noctis’s.  
  
Angry at his life in general.  
  
Living in the Citadel—it wasn’t horrible, but it _was_ stifling. Guards and servants constantly bowing and saluting him wherever he went. The fact that he had to go to pains whenever he wanted to leave and head out into the city, whether it was for school or for his own entertainment. Even bringing Prompto over was a hassle, something which could require a few days notice, and even then it wasn’t a guarantee he could always make it.  
  
The Citadel was huge and vast and smothering, and he would have to spend the rest of his life in it once he was—once it was his time. Was it too much to ask for some _freedom_ , for some space, while he still had the chance?  
  
Yeah, maybe living in the Citadel gave him and his dad a better chance of spending time together, but it wasn’t always the case. And these walls, these corridors, his dad’s presence was _everywhere_ , and it was beginning to be a rather painful reminder of things to come. He couldn’t escape the reminder, no matter where he want.  
  
Noctis winced and swung his sword, let it slam into the side of the dummy’s neck. He’d been a dick to his dad, though. He had let his frustrations get the better of him and he had lashed out at him, acted like a spoiled, petulant kid.  
  
Of course, he knew why his dad was so hesitant about it. He had been lenient with a lot of things when it came to Noctis, to the point where he _had_ received unspoken disapproval from the older council members. He was practically allowed to do anything he wanted, so long as he didn’t get himself into any trouble.  
  
His dad...he was simply protective. _Overprotective_ even. He was too scared to let Noctis stray far in case something happened to him and they couldn’t get to him in time.  
  
_Like when that daemon attacked,_ Noctis thought grimly, and he quickly shoved back the few memories he had of that particular night.  
  
There was nothing he could do about it now. He had already laid out his request to his dad, and he hadn’t denied him outright, so clearly he was still open to it and considering it. Noctis would just have to be patient, and accept whatever decision his dad made on the matter.  
  
And, just like that, the remnants of his anger fizzled out, and he stared at the training dummy. There was still some time before he had to get ready for dinner, so he might as well run through a few more drills.  
  
A noise behind him made him hesitate, and he turned to see Christos in the open doorway, peering at him curiously.  
  
“Oh, uh,” Noctis glanced behind him at the dummy, “can I help you with something?”  
  
“Forgive me for intruding,” Christos said and came further into the room. He looked out of place in here, still dressed as finely as ever, like he was seconds away from attending a business meeting. Noctis had to wonder if he’d ever picked up a sword himself.  
  
“It’s not a private room,” he said, to fill the silence, clearing his throat. “You can hardly intrude when the door’s open.”  
  
Christos smiled, coming to stop beside him, staring at the dummy. “Still, you were busy. But, as you said, the door was open and I was curious at the noise.” He glanced at Noctis then, eyes soft and curious. “Were you angry?”  
  
Noctis grunted, looked away. He didn’t want to talk about it, but it would be rude to refuse their guest. “Frustrated, I guess, but not anymore.” He motioned towards the dummy with his sword. “Training helps get a lot of frustrations out.”  
  
“I wouldn’t know,” Christos chuckled. “I focused more on my intellectual studies instead of physical.”  
  
Noctis fought to keep a neutral expression. Was it just him or did that seem like a bit of a jibe? Maybe he was still more worked up than he thought.  
  
Christos didn’t give him a chance to reply. “Still, you’re a little young to be pushing your body through such things, aren’t you?”  
  
“Not really,” Noctis shrugged. “My training started when I was twelve. Same with Gladio, my shield. It’s kind of a thing, I guess you could say. My dad was twelve when his training started, too.”  
  
“Ah, yes,” Christos nodded. “I think that’s around the time my father came here.”  
  
Noctis shrugged again, but he didn’t reply. It wasn’t like he knew a lot of back then to form an answer, and it seemed pretty awkward to keep apologising for someone’s death. It would become a meaningless sentiment if he did.  
  
“You seem good at it,” Christos was looking at him again. “Quick. Strong.”  
  
“Uh, thanks,” Noctis nodded and glanced back at the dummy. He fiddled with the sword in his hand, let it swing back and forth a little. “Gladio’s pretty strict with the training.”  
  
“Your shield,” Christos said. “He’ll be attending the party with you tomorrow, won’t he?”  
  
“Yeah. It’s pretty much his job to.”  
  
Christos chuckled then, and he motioned to the dummy when Noctis looked at him in surprise. “Forgive me for sounding a little unknowledgeable of these things, but you seem perfectly capable of protecting yourself as is.”  
  
Noctis gave him a half-grin, a little pleased. That was the point of all of this, and he was definitely getting there, but— “It’s an old tradition.”  
  
“Of course,” Christos tipped his head, an almost bow, then gave Noctis a small smile. “Although I hope that shield of yours isn’t too... _hard_ on you. When your father stayed with us in Accordo, I remember watching as he and Clarus would train together. It seemed almost brutal, the way they would use real weapons against each other. I always feared one, or both, of them would end up badly hurt.”  
  
“Not likely,” Noctis said. “And even if they did, my dad could just use his magic to heal them up.”  
  
“Ah, of course,” Christos repeated. “And it’s the same for you then?”  
  
Noctis paused, not sure if he _should_ answer it honestly or not, but then, this was a friend of his dad’s and not some stranger. “Not yet,” he admitted, clearing his throat again when his voice felt a little rough, “I, uh, can’t use my magic yet.” He moved the sword again, bringing it up a little. “Hence the wooden weapons.”  
  
Christos nodded, eyes curious, but not unkind. “Oh, I see.” He smiled again, tilting his head almost conspiratorially. “I guess these things just take time, then.”  
  
Noctis forced a smile in return. “Yeah, guess so.” Never mind the fact that it was taking _too much_ time. Never mind the fact that everyone who had come before him had been able to use their magic by his age, and Noctis wasn’t oblivious to the council’s ‘concern’ about his current lack of powers.  
  
“Well, I look forward to the day when you maybe be able to show me a few tricks.” Christos bowed at him then. “I’m afraid I must be going, Your Highness. I’ll see you at dinner.”  
  
“Uh, yeah,” Noctis nodded, “at dinner.”  
  
  
~ &~  
  
  
He had been prepared for it to be rather awkward between him and his dad - and had almost wondered if he would even bother paying any attention to him considering his behaviour earlier - but it went surprisingly easier than that. Noctis merely had to give him a small smile as he entered with Ignis and Gladio and his dad smiled back, almost relieved.  
  
It wouldn’t fix anything, and Noctis definitely wanted to apologise to him later, but at least things weren’t tense between them like he had feared they would be.  
  
Dinner was a lot more lively than it was the previous night. A more traditional dinner when they had guests over, they were joined by Ignis and his uncle, Gladio and Clarus, Cor, and most of the council members. Afterwards, there would no doubt be further discussions on the proposed business deals, perhaps contracts outlined and ready for signing tomorrow sometime during or after the party.  
  
It was noisier, but it saved Noctis trying to come up with all sorts of conversation topics. This way he could simply listen to what everyone else was talking about and only occasionally add a thought or two of his own when it seemed appropriate enough.  
  
He probably shouldn’t have overdone it with his training however. It wasn’t long before sitting in the straight back chair was making his spine a little uncomfortable, and his bad knee was beginning to ache. His dad, sitting at the head of the table to his right, seemed to notice, glancing at him with a concerned look.  
  
Noctis just grimaced at him and shook his head a little.  
  
His dad rolled his eyes and leaned a little closer, murmuring, “You can go and stretch your legs a little, if you need to.”  
  
He doubted that would work, but it was a nice thought and he could do with a moment of peace and quiet. Noctis simply nodded and stood, politely excusing himself to the rest of the table. He decided to head through the doors into the adjoining kitchen, letting them close on the conversation at the dinner table, cutting the voices off.  
  
Noctis sighed in relief. The kitchen was cooler and quieter, with most of the staff out in the dining room waiting to be called upon, and he was about to go and lean his forehead against one of the fridges when he noticed the woman near the end of the room. One of Christos’s servants, she held one of the tall alcohol bottles to her nose, sniffing at it. It was one of the drinks Christos had brought with him, the bitter tasting light blue stuff. His dad had let him have a single glass of it, but even then he’d only managed to get half-way down.  
  
The woman was frowning down at the bottle, turning it around in her hands to read the label, as if she was confused by it.  
  
Noctis hesitated, glancing around the rest of the kitchen, but they were alone and he wasn’t sure what to do. If one of Christos’s servants was sneaking alcohol, basically drinking on the job, then was it really his place to call them out on it? Noctis stepped closer and cleared his throat. “Everything okay?”  
  
The woman jumped, gasping, nearly dropping the bottle entirely. It thudded against the counter, some of its contents sloshing out and pouring down the neck. “Your Highness!” she said, voice strained, and she bowed her head, cheeks already turning pink. “I’m sorry, did you need something?”  
  
“No,” Noctis gave her a small smile, hoping to make her a little more comfortable. “Did _you_ need something?” he glanced down at the bottle pointedly. “Everything okay?”  
  
“I, um—” she swallowed and looked down at it. “It’s nothing, Your Highness. I was just—maybe a little paranoid it was out of date.”  
  
Noctis fought to keep the frown off his face. It was a bit of an odd reply, even stranger when he looked down and noticed the bruise peeking out from the edge of her sleeve. It was dark, as if it had been there for days, and it was wrapped around her entire wrist from what he could see.  
  
He waited until she’d finished shoving the cork back in and settled the bottle back with the others on the counter before he asked, “Were you injured?”  
  
Her eyes snapped to his. “I’m sorry?”  
  
“Your wrist,” he nodded towards it. He tried for another smile. “It looks painful.”  
  
The woman tugged at her sleeve, practically stretching the material as she tried to cover the mark. “It’s fine, thank you, it’s simply from an accident back home. I’m a clumsy one, I’m afraid.”  
  
“If you’re sure,” Noctis said.  
  
“I am.” She smiled then and gave him a respectful bow before picking up an empty platter set aside on the counter. “I’d best be getting back out there. Please don’t hesitate to ask if you need anything, Your Highness.”  
  
“Thanks.” He let her go, waiting until the door swung shut. He made his way over to the same counter, reaching out for the bottle she’d been inspecting. It was the only open one, two others waiting in a row with the rest of the wine and champagne and other types of alcohol.  
  
Noctis turned the bottle, reading the label, searching out a date. It seemed to be perfectly fine, and the drink itself could last for around a week once it had been opened. He reached for the cork and pulled it out, sniffing it for himself, but it simply smelled like the stuff they were serving back in the dining room.  
  
He put the cork back in and returned the bottle to stand with the others.  
  
The woman hadn’t _seemed_ drunk or under any influence. If she had been looking to sneak a quick drink, then she wouldn’t be smelling it, right?  
  
Maybe he was just being a little paranoid, but the way she had seemed so nervous and jumpy, her strange answers, that bruise on her wrist that she seemed so desperate to cover up—it gave him an odd feeling.  
  
He tried to keep an eye on her during the rest of dinner, but he couldn’t tell if he was simply reading into things, or if there was something strange going on. She was as obedient as the rest of the servants, quiet and waiting off to the side, prepared to be called upon. She was polite and quick to act, serving drinks and food to numerous guests around the table.  
  
Although, it seemed as if she tried to keep a slightly bigger distance between herself and Christos whenever she served him. She didn’t stand as close, didn’t hover as much, and moved away from him a little quicker. Noctis fought to keep his face unreadable whenever he noticed it happening, giving a quick glance around the table, wondering if anyone else noticed the strange behaviour.  
  
But they didn’t seem to, not even Ignis and Gladio, and that was just all the more frustrating.  
  
He didn’t get a chance to speak with his dad privately after dinner and he knew they wouldn’t be able to catch up later in the night either, not when he was planning to crash into bed soon and not with his dad clearly busy with paperwork.  
  
He seemed to realise his frustrations, giving Noctis a private smile before they parted ways, and Noctis resigned himself to waiting a little longer to give him his apology.  
  
He headed to his rooms instead, deciding to fill Prompto in on the details of the strange encounter with the servant so that he could get a second opinion. He left his phone laying on the dresser in his room, the call on speaker, as he slowly peeled himself out of his jacket, his back still aching.  
  
“ _Wait, back up a bit_ ,” Prompto said, a little distracted. In the background, Noctis could hear the faint sounds of the fighting game he was playing. “ _You’re saying she was sniffing at the booze? Like a ‘will this give me the runs’ kind of sniff or ‘will this help me get high’ kind of sniff?_ ”  
  
Noctis snorted in amusement, sitting down on the edge of his bed so he could pull his shoes and socks off. “I’d say more like the first one, but it was just...really _weird_.”  
  
“ _Yeah, I’ll say._ ”  
  
Noctis frowned over at his wall, thinking back on the moment. “She seemed more suspicious about it than concerned.”  
  
“ _Suspicious? Yeah, that’s weird—oh, come on! Hacks!_ ” there was a suspicious thump through the speaker, and Noctis grinned as he heard the voice on the game announce a rather insulting ‘you lose’.  
  
“You suck at fighting games,” Noctis said.  
  
“ _You suck at fighting games,_ ” Prompto repeated, his voice more higher pitched and mocking, and Noctis grinned again. “ _I do_ not _. I’m just tired, okay?_ ”  
  
“Uh-huh.” Noctis rolled his eyes and stood up, working on changing into something more comfortable. Once he had his sweatpants on and his t-shirt pulled over his head, he looked over at the phone and said, “She had a bruise on her wrist, and she was _really_ twitchy about it.”  
  
Rustling noises through the phone, like a packet was being opened, and then Prompto, while crunching loudly on some food, said, “ _Maybe she just had a really embarrassing accident and didn’t want to talk about it?_ ”  
  
Noctis sighed. “Maybe.”  
  
“ _Hey, it’s super nice that you’re so concerned for her, though—_ ”  
  
He glared at the phone. “Shut up, I know that tone. Don’t you dare start.”  
  
Prompto chuckled, crunching on more food. “ _Seriously, though. It does sound kinda weird, but it’s just the one incident, y’know? If anything else happens, then, yeah, start getting concerned. But, right now, you don’t really know enough to get worried over it. For all you know, she coulda just been having a twitchy day and she was paranoid her boss was gonna get on her case about it in front of the king._ ”  
  
“I guess,” Noctis said. “Hey, when’d you get so knowledgeable?”  
  
“ _Noct, buddy. Friend. Companion. I’ve_ always _been knowledgeable._ ”  
  
“Yeah, _right_.”  
  
“ _Shut up! You gonna get online so I can kick your royal ass or not?_ ”  
  
Noctis rolled his eyes, grabbed his phone up off the dresser and headed into the adjoining room where his tv and couch were. “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming. Get ready for ‘you lose’ to be burned into your tv.”  
  
“ _I’ll sue you for damages._ ”  
  
“You can’t sue me!”  
  
“ _Just watch!_ ”  
  
  
~&~  
  
  
_(Now)_  
  
Noctis’s route had been a chaotic one, twisting and turning through different corridors and down several floors until it had eventually come to an end. They could retrace it, but there didn’t seem to be much point once they had visited the king’s rooms, as that had been the major source of any clues they could find. After that, Noctis’s route had just been a one of desperate survival throughout the Citadel.  
  
And Ignis didn’t particularly like the idea of returning to where they’d been found. Crownsguard had no doubt sealed the area off by now, but he didn’t care for the visual reminder of what they’d seen.  
  
He wondered if the blood had been cleaned up yet, or if it still stained the tiles like a nightmarish image.  
  
They returned to the floor the party was on and found an empty office where they could think over things in peace. Ignis chose to stand by the windows again, feeling almost hypnotised by the vast sea of city lights. Everything seemed so peaceful out there. He envied them for that.  
  
Gladio was far too worked up with frustration and anger and a need to seek justice for the one he was supposed to protect. He couldn’t sit still, paced up and down the office like a caged animal, fiddled with the things on the desks, the books on the shelves.  
  
“I don’t get it,” he said eventually.  
  
“Well, we’re clearly missing something,” Ignis said, not bothering to turn away from the window. “Any word from your father?”  
  
Gladio sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “The king’s apparently... _lucid_ now, but he doesn’t remember anything that’s happened. Says the last thing he remembers is getting ready for the party.”  
  
Ignis paused at that, thinking it over. “Curious,” he said eventually. “That could rule out the possibility that this was a domestic incident.”  
  
“Yeah, it’s the little things,” Gladio said, and his voice was rough. “Unless, and I hate to say it, but—unless he’s lying about it.”  
  
Ignis closed his eyes and took in a deep breath, let it out slowly. “Yes, there is that.”  
  
“I _refuse_ to believe that he did this willingly.”  
  
“As do I,” Ignis gave him a glance. “But, then, what does that leave us? Was he intoxicated? Sick, perhaps?”  
  
“He was aware enough to text Noct,” Gladio pointed out.  
  
Ignis shook his head. “Have you seen the message? Because I haven’t. We don’t know what it said, or if it made sense at all. Noct could have simply been checking on him out of concern and ended up being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”  
  
While no less concerning, it sounded like a plausible enough scenario even to his own ears. Noctis hadn’t given any indication that something was wrong after he had checked his phone, but then again he was good at keeping up a charade. He had to be as a future leader. And perhaps the king had texted him of all people, instead of his shield or one of the doctors, simply because he hadn’t been thinking clearly and had wanted to reach out to his son in the midst of his confusion.  
  
Gladio was pressing his lips together, deep in thought, before he sighed heavily. “He’s apparently lucid enough now in the medical wing. In pain and confused as hell, yeah, but aware.”  
  
“They recovered the king’s phone, didn’t they?”  
  
“Yeah, I think so.”  
  
“Can you make a request to your father? Find out what the message His Majesty sent to Noct was?”  
  
Gladio was already pulling his phone out before he had even finished, nodding. “Sure, give me a minute.”  
  
Perhaps he was reaching a little with his theories, stretching truths until he could come up with a logical enough scenario without it being close to what he feared. He just simply - _desperately_ \- didn’t want this to be the result of some well hidden secret that had now come to light. Perhaps it was foolish to think that he knew the king and Noctis well enough, because what if he didn’t? What if they kept parts of their lives secret, what if there were things that went on behind closed doors that _no one_ knew about?  
  
Noctis had reassured him earlier in the day that his argument with his dad had been settled and that everything was fine, and it had _seemed_ like he was telling the truth. Had he been? They had certainly seemed to be on good terms at dinner, but what if it was all a charade?  
  
Ignis ran his hands over his face and through his hair.  
  
“Okay,” Gladio spoke up. “Dad says the message was clear, and the king was just asking to see Noct in private.” He let out an annoyed huff and pocketed his phone. “Doesn’t prove or disprove anything, though.”  
  
Ignis’s own phone chose that moment to jingle in his pocket, and he hesitated at the name lit up on the screen. “It’s Prompto,” he murmured. It was rare that Prompto ever contacted him; the only reason they had exchanged numbers in the first place was because it was easier to get in contact with Noctis if he ever forgot his phone or if his battery died on him.  
  
He probably shouldn’t answer it, but he found himself lifting his phone to his ear anyway. “Prompto.”  
  
“ _Ignis!_ ” Prompto’s voice practically exploded into his ear, just a tone shy of frantic. “ _Ignis, what the hell’s going on? I can’t get through to Noct, he’s not picking up, and there are these helicopters circling the Citadel, and—_ ”  
  
“Prompto,” Ignis cut in sharply, fighting back a wince. “Breathe.”  
  
Prompto let out a heavy breath. “ _Is—is everything okay? Where’s Noct? What’s with the helicopters?_ ”  
  
Ignis bit back a curse. If Prompto had noticed them from wherever he was, then a lot of others would have too. Explaining this to the public was going to be a nightmare.  
  
“ _Ignis? You there, man?_ ”  
  
He wasn’t sure if he should answer Prompto’s questions. Technically, as a civilian, he had no right to any information at all and Ignis wasn’t obligated to tell him anything. Turning Prompto away now, telling him that everything was fine, would be the appropriate response to this, but it would also be a lie and a little cruel if things...didn’t work out for the best. It could be kinder to have Prompto be prepared for any negative consequences from tonight, especially given the doctors’ current concerns over Noctis’s body and the damage it had taken.  
  
“Prompto,” Ignis started, then paused, clearing his throat. “Noct—he’s been injured. He’s hurt.”  
  
Prompto was silent for a little too long, and when his voice came back it was much quieter. “ _Hurt? Is he—how bad is it? Will he be okay?_ ”  
  
“He’s being treated as we speak,” Ignis answered, painfully aware how little an answer that actually was, praying that Prompto wouldn’t push it further. Gladio was staring at him, eyebrows raised, but Ignis could only wave his hand helplessly. “I will try and keep you up to date, but you understand that this is a rather delicate situation over here—”  
  
“ _Wait, what? Delicate? What does that mean? Is it about that woman?_ ”  
  
Ignis paused. “What woman?”  
  
“ _That servant woman, she works for the guy that’s staying over? Christoph or whatever._ ”  
  
“Christos,” Ignis corrected automatically, frowning at Gladio. “Prompto, what woman? Has Noct been saying something to you?”  
  
Gladio was snapping his fingers repeatedly, pointing at the phone. “Speaker.”  
  
Ignis complied, putting the call on speaker as Prompto said, “ _He told me about it last night after that dinner you guys had. Said there was a woman in the kitchen acting all weird. She was sniffing whatever alcohol you had and getting all jumpy when he talked to her. He was kinda worried about it, really._ ”  
  
“Worried?” Ignis asked. “Why would he be worried?”  
  
Prompto let out a strange noise, like he was frustrated. “ _He said he saw a bruise on her wrist, and that she got a little defensive and twitchy over it. It weirded him out, he said something felt strange about it._ ” Another frustrated noise. “ _God, I told him not to_ worry _, I said it was probably nothing—_ ”  
  
“Hey, this ain’t your fault,” Gladio cut in gently.  
  
“ _Oh, uh, hey. Gladio?_ ”  
  
“Yeah, it’s me,” Gladio answered. “Is there anything else you can tell us? Anything else Noct said to you?”  
  
“ _Uh—he said she seemed kinda scared of that Christos guy, like she didn’t really want to go near him or something._ ”  
  
“Okay,” Gladio said slowly. “Anything else?”  
  
“ _No, that’s it._ ” There was a small pause, and then Prompto asked, “ _How did Noct get hurt? What happened to him?_ ”  
  
“I’m afraid it’s not something we can discuss right now,” Ignis answered. Or, more honestly, it was something he couldn't quite repeat out loud yet.  
  
Another pause, and when Prompto spoke, he sounded like he was catching on a little, like he could read between the lines. “ _Okay,_ ” he said, “ _Well, you’re busy, so I guess I won’t hold you up or anything then. Keep me updated on how he’s doing, though, yeah?_ ”  
  
Ignis closed his eyes and nodded, hoping the next time he contacted Prompto wouldn’t be to tell him grave news. “Certainly. I’ll speak to you soon.”  
  
After a long moment of thoughtful silence, Gladio came over towards the windows, running a hand over his mouth. “If he’s talking about that Accordian wine they brought with them, then we all drank the stuff. And that was last night. No one else has been acting weird, as far as we know anyway.”  
  
Ignis hummed. “We have little else to go on right now, however. If this servant was acting suspicious, then we have to question her, whatever the reasons behind her actions might be.”  
  
“Yeah, can’t argue with you there,” Gladio sighed heavily. “You think she’s a suspect?”  
  
“I'm not sure. I suppose it's a possibility.”  
  
Gladio nodded, turning to his phone again. “I’ll text my dad to let him know what we’re doing.”  
  
Ignis pushed away from the windows. “While we’re walking, preferably.”  
  
He could recall the moment Noctis had quietly excused himself from the dinner table to walk around a little. It was obvious to anyone who knew him well that he had been experiencing some pain, most likely with his bad knee, and so it hadn’t been much of a surprise when the king had let him leave temporarily.  
  
Noctis hadn’t spent too long in the kitchen, but Ignis had put it down to him simply waiting until he was no longer in pain. The servant had left before he had, and Ignis could recall her well enough to know that that she was one of the women at Christos’s side in the ballroom.  
  
As they stepped through the doors and back into the party, Gladio quickly pocketed his phone and muttered, “Dad wants us to keep him updated if we find anything.”  
  
Ignis nodded. “Certainly.”  
  
Christos was sat at one of the tables, by himself, the two servants waiting close by. He perked up as Ignis and Gladio approached, sitting up straighter with a curious look. “Ignis and Gladiolus, wasn’t it?” he said. “Are you here to tell me just what is going on around here, then?”  
  
Ignis kept his face neutral, but he bowed his head as he would be expected to. “I’m afraid we are prohibited from divulging any information, Lord Silvius.”  
  
Christos snorted and looked away. “This entire thing is such a debacle. Do you think your guests are unaware that _something_ is going on?”  
  
“I’d be concerned if they didn’t realise such a thing,” Ignis answered dryly.  
  
Christos didn’t seem to take that too well, leaning forward in his chair with a hard look in his eyes. “King Regis is a friend of my family and I have every right to know if something has happened to him.”  
  
Technically he didn’t, but whether he believed he did or he was simply trying to fool Ignis into sharing information with him, he couldn’t tell. Ignis held his stare without flinching, simply saying, “Then you will have to direct any questions you might have to his shield.”  
  
“Clarus isn’t here!” Christos snapped back, looking more exasperated by the second. “And we are all being kept locked up in this room like prisoners.”  
  
“Then I’m afraid you’ll have to wait for a little longer before you can receive any answers.” Ignis didn’t bother waiting for a reply, instead he let his eyes flick over to the servant from dinner yesterday. “Miss, I’d appreciate it if you accompanied us for a short time.”  
  
Christos and the other woman both snapped their heads towards her. The servant herself seemed to pale right before them, her eyes widening a little as she froze. “Me? Why?”  
  
Ignis gave her a small smile, hoping it was at least a little bit reassuring. “Just a small inquiry, that’s all. We’re beginning to ask the staff a few simple questions, ours included. It’s a routine thing, I assure you.”  
  
Christos stared at her, then frowned up at Ignis and Gladio. “If you are able to escort her out of this room for some routine questions, then you can arrange for someone to escort me to the king.”  
  
The original plan had been to take her back to the office, away from any prying eyes and ears, but it seemed like that was already out of the window. “I never said we were leaving the room,” Ignis retorted. “No one is allowed to leave, as I’m sure you have been told, and we will adhere to those rules implicitly.”  
  
Christos’s eyes narrowed at him. “I’m not sure I like your tone, boy. It’s hardly befitting the advisor to the prince.”  
  
Ignis quirked an eyebrow at him. “You can address any concerns you may have with His Majesty.” He glanced over at the servant, who hadn’t regained any of her colour. “Miss, please come with us.”  
  
He turned and led the way towards a much quieter part of the ballroom, to where there were a group of tables vacant of guests. On the way, he caught Gladio staring at him and raised his eyebrows questioningly, but Gladio merely shook his head and mouthed the word “damn” to him.  
  
The woman looked increasingly nervous as they sat down at the table, fiddling with the edges of her shirt sleeve, eyes darting back and forth.  
  
Ignis glanced at Gladio again before clearing his throat. “I’d like to ask you about a small moment that was mentioned to us,” he started. “It happened at dinner yesterday?”  
  
She swallowed visibly, nodding. It wasn’t unreasonable to be nervous, being taken aside by two crownsguard members when they were all shut inside the ballroom with something clearly happening on the outside, but Ignis couldn’t tell whether it was simply down to that or if it was something else.  
  
“His Highness was a little concerned for you,” Ignis said, keeping his voice gentle and unthreatening. Perhaps, if she felt safe with them, then she would be more open to answering. “He felt as if you were in distress.”  
  
“I, um,” she swallowed again, smiling a little, “I was only concerned for the date of the wine, sir. I was worried it was out of date.”  
  
Gladio leaned forward a little, elbow resting on the table. “I don’t really know the way servants operate things,” he said slowly, “but wouldn’t that have been checked, maybe even _double_ checked, before bringing it here in the first place? I’m sure no one would take the risk of having the king fall ill because of some expired wine.”  
  
The woman was biting her lip, hands in her lap and picking at her skirt.  
  
“Unless there was something else you were concerned with,” Ignis said.  
  
“Is that it?” Gladio asked. “Is there something in the wine?”  
  
“I don’t know,” she murmured. She sighed, shifting in her chair and looking away. “Look, I don’t want to get anyone into trouble.”  
  
“I can understand that,” Ignis said, “But we need to know whatever it is you know.”  
  
She was silent for a moment, thoughtful, then shook her head, looking more frustrated as she spoke. “All I know is that the wine was delivered to us at the manor a few days ago and Lord Silvius was livid when he found me opening it.”  
  
Ignis paused. “Livid?” he glanced down at her covered wrist. “Is that where your bruise comes from? Did he do that to you?”  
  
“He was so angry,” the servant continued, as if he had never spoken, but she covered her wrist with her other hand, “But how was I supposed to know I wasn’t supposed to open it? I usually do with the packages.”  
  
“You said it was delivered to you?” Gladio asked, voice quiet and thoughtful.  
  
She nodded. “Yes, although maybe I should have realised when it wasn’t our usual courier that brought it to the manor.”  
  
“So why were you so worried about it? What makes you think something’s wrong with it?”  
  
“I don’t _know_ ,” she clenched her hands in her skirt, knuckles turning white, “All I know is that he was angry with me for opening it and he said I’d lose my job if I went anywhere near it again. No one was to touch it, until it was brought here.” She paused, bit her lip, eyeing the two of them carefully. “We’ve had wines and food delivered to us before to take with us when we’ve visited others, or when we’ve arranged parties of our own, and he’s _never_ reacted that way before.”  
  
Ignis contemplated her for a moment, before gently saying, “Perhaps you’d like to come with us. You can inform the Marshal of what you know, and we can see that you’re kept somewhere safe until this whole thing is brought to a close.”  
  
She clenched her hands, looking like she wanted to protest, her eyes miserable, but then her shoulders slumped and she nodded. “If it’ll help.”  
  
It wasn’t much to go on, but it was suspicious all the same. Ignis could have understood Christos’s nervousness and need to keep something meant for the King of Lucis safe and untouched until they arrived, but to go as far as threatening to fire one of his own simply for opening the package in the first place? To practically assault her over it?  
  
They took her downstairs, to the medical wing so Cor and Clarus could pull her into an office to ask their own questions. Ignis had expected it to take a while, perhaps even longer than their own conversation, but it wasn’t long before they were coming back out, faces grim.  
  
“Dad?” Gladio said.  
  
Clarus came close, keeping his voice low. “I’m giving you both permission to go and arrest Lord Silvius.”  
  
Ignis blinked. “Is he guilty? Is he the one behind this?”  
  
“How’d you know?” Gladio added.  
  
Clarus sighed. “His Majesty is beginning to recall what happened, and the information the serving girl has given us only confirms that this was a planned attack on the prince.”  
  
“Planned?” Ignis said, for a moment unable to care that he was questioning his superior officer, a wave of anger coming over him. “What—he _wanted_ Noct to die?”  
  
Clarus nodded. “So it would seem. I want you both to have him detained immediately.”  
  
“Us?” Gladio looked confused at the idea.  
  
“You’re both retainers to the prince," Clarus said. "If you are to serve him closely in the future, then you can serve him now. Cor and I would do it ourselves, but we have other matters to tend to.”  
  
Ignis swallowed, looking over Clarus’s shoulder and down the corridor, to where Noctis’s room was. “Any word on how His Highness is doing?”  
  
Cor was the one who answered, shaking his head. “He remains the same.”  
  
“Don’t think about that right now,” Clarus cut in, staring them both down. “Go upstairs, both of you, and arrest Lord Silvius. Take him to the cells and have him under guard.”  
  
Gladio was the first one to nod, answering with a sharp “Yes, sir”, one that Ignis could only mumble along with, his mind stuck on the fact that not only had this been a direct attack on Noctis, but he was supposedly still in the same condition he’d been when they brought him in, that and Clarus was quick to shut the conversation down.  
  
It didn’t bode well.  
  
Christos had been so _friendly_ when they had greeted him on the steps outside the Citadel. He had been eager to see the king again, and seemingly just as eager to meet Noctis. At the time, while overly cheerful, Ignis had simply seen it as someone happy to see an old friend.  
  
But perhaps Christos didn’t see them as friends after all.  
  
“His dad died protecting the king,” Gladio murmured to him as they marched out of the medical wing and began the journey back up to the ballroom. “He’s got one of the biggest motivations out of anyone.”  
  
Ignis glanced at him. “But to attack Noct?”  
  
“I’d say it’s pretty obvious why.”  
  
Ignis hated how much it _was_ obvious, painfully so, and that Christos could very well have gotten away with all of this under different circumstances.  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

_  
  
(6pm) _   
  
“I can’t thank you enough for hosting me and my staff this weekend, Your Majesty,” Christos said. He was standing by the dresser where the drinks were, picking up the bottle of the Accordian wine he had given to Regis and pulling the cork out. A little early for drinks, maybe, but just the one couldn’t hurt.   
  
“The pleasure is all mine, truly,” Regis smiled and turned back to his desk, letting his finger run over the edge of the framed photograph of Noctis he kept there. He couldn’t see the picture from this angle, but he knew it by heart; a close up of him and his son, standing together at an opening ceremony they had both attended last year. It had been a good day for everyone, and they were both smiling at the camera, leaning close to each other.   
  
Regis had all sorts of pictures of Noctis; official paintings and photographs, school portraits, a few pictures from birthday and holiday celebrations, but this one here was one of his favourites.   
  
Christos appeared at his side, two glasses of the light blue wine in hand. He held one of them out. “But still,” he said, watching as Regis took the glass and sipped from it, “I know there were risks, hosting us here. Niflheim is a force to be reckoned with.”   
  
Regis fought back a wince. “True.”   
  
“I admire your tenacity,” Christos smiled a little. “It’s inspiring to see you persevere in your fight. I imagine it hasn’t been easy.”   
  
“I have a kingdom to defend,” Regis said after a moment. “I wouldn’t be much of a king if I simply gave in and stood aside.” He took another drink of the wine, let it wash down his throat and through him. “Still, this war cannot go on forever. It will end one way or another.”   
  
Christos nodded, a thoughtful look in his eyes. He glanced down at the back of the frame on the desk and motioned to it. “May I?”   
  
Regis nodded. “Certainly.”   
  
He picked up the photograph, turning it in his hand and staring down at the picture of Noctis and Regis. “Certainly a handsome young man,” Christos chuckled eventually. “There must be queues of girls waiting around every corner.”   
  
Regis snorted into his drink. “Try and bring that up with him, I dare you. I’ve never seen someone turn so red so quickly.”   
  
Christos chuckled again, before turning a little serious. “I can only sympathise with him, however. It must be a little overwhelming for him, knowing what’s ahead. He inherits a great burden.”   
  
Far greater than anyone realised, Regis thought grimly. He was far from being drunk after a few sips, but even if he had been it was a painfully sobering thought. “Noctis knows what is expected of him,” he said eventually. “I admit, perhaps I’m a little too protective, but what father isn’t? And I know he will live up to expectations when his time comes.”   
  
Christos carefully placed the photograph back on the desk, turning towards the couches and taking a seat on one. “You love him dearly. I can tell.”   
  
“My pride and joy,” Regis admitted with a chuckle, taking another sip of his drink in hopes of hiding how self-conscious he suddenly felt. He frowned when he was met with nothing but silence. “Christos?”   
  
Christos smiled again, although it was far weaker than before, tinged with something Regis couldn’t quite read. “My apologies, Your Majesty. I was merely thinking of my own father.”   
  
“Ah.” Regis nodded.   
  
“And the life you stole from him.”   
  
Regis froze, unsure if he had heard right. “Pardon?”   
  
Christos sighed and placed his half empty glass down on the table between the couches before reaching into his pocket. Regis put his own glass down on the desk and took a step forward, frowning as Christos held out a small object.   
  
A high pitched tone screeched from it when Christos pressed a button, and the sound shot through Regis’s head like a bullet, had the world lurching violently on its axis. His balance was thrown off completely, blood roaring in his ears, sound fading in and out. “Christos?” he called out, and he stumbled forwards, hoping to sit down on one of the couches and wait for the dizziness to pass.   
  
Hands grabbed him and helped him sit, and he collapsed down into the couch, unable to move any further, only able to watch as Christos sat opposite him with a sigh. “I was four when my father came to train you and Clarus,” he was saying, but his voice was hard to hear through the white noise in Regis’s ears, his words coming in and out. “And for years I only had occasional holiday visits to look forward to. Seeing my father was an _event_ , instead of a constant.”   
  
Regis tried to speak, tried to ask him to call for help, _anything_ , because something was horribly wrong with his head at that moment. But nothing would come out and his tongue was too heavy in his mouth.   
  
“And then he finally returned to us,” Christos said. “I was able to live with my father, had him teach me his ways, had him _guide_ me the way a father should.” He leaned forward on the couch, glaring at Regis. “Until you showed up and took him away. _Again_. Only permanently this time.”   
  
No, _no_ , that had been an accident. No one had predicted that night’s events, and Jean-Luc had been kind and loyal and without regrets. And still Regis regretted that night, it wasn’t as if he had _wanted_ his mentor to die—how could he? Jean-Luc had been a great influence on him, had taught him so much. Death had been the last thing Regis could have ever wished on him.   
  
“I would have preferred to have done this a little more slowly, more subtly,” Christos said. He reached out for Regis’s glass over on the desk, placing it instead onto the table between them. “But you only gave me three days, and so this will have to do. Though I suppose it doesn’t really matter in the end.”   
  
He reached into his jacket, pulling a hip flask out of his inner pocket. He unscrewed the lid and poured more of that light blue wine into Regis’s glass before pushing it towards him.   
  
He stood then, pocketing the flask and picking up his own glass from where he’d left it, eyes never leaving Regis as he rounded the coffee table and came closer to him. Regis fumbled with his hand, frustrated with how slow and _clumsy_ it was, how it wouldn’t properly obey him as he tried to reach into his pocket for his phone.   
  
Christos noticed and said, “Stop.”   
  
Regis stopped.   
  
“Look at me.”   
  
Regis turned his head to look at him, and his heart _pounded_ in his chest. Things were fading in and out faster now, like a terrible dream, a _nightmare_ —   
  
Christos sat down beside him, gaze cold and piercing as he sipped at his drink. “An eye for an eye, Your Majesty,” he said. “You will not attend the party tonight. You will send Clarus and Cor, but you will wait here in your rooms instead. You will be running late.”   
  
The words sounded funny. They seeped through his skin, tingles in his brain, and they left him feeling cold—but he was entranced and unable to stop listening.   
  
“After half an hour, you will send a message to your son and ask him to come and see you privately.” Christos leaned closer then, voice cold and clear. “And then you will kill him. No matter what happens, you _will kill_ your son.”   
  
He had that device in his free hand again, smirking cruelly. “Make it hurt. I want you to actually suffer for the blood on your hands,” he said. “You won’t remember any of this conversation.” He pressed that button on the device again, and there was that high pitched tone once more and—   
  
Regis glanced down at the coffee table where his drink was, and he leaned forward so he could reach for it. “My apologies, I was lost in thought for a moment,” he said with a self-conscious smile, sitting back down and running one hand over his eyes. His head felt a little sore, as if he had a headache brewing. “What were we talking about?”   
  
Christos smiled at him from over his own glass, pleasant and amused. “We were talking about your son.” He nudged Regis’s knee with his own. “It’ll be that old age catching up with your, Your Majesty.”   
  
“Yes,” Regis chuckled, “it must be that. Again, you have my apologies.”   
  
Christos smiled again and shook his head, saying, “It’s fine.”   
  
  
~ &~   
  
  
_(10:15pm)_   
  
His dad being nearly an hour late to a party he had arranged was a little worrying, and Noctis was beginning to wonder if something was wrong. The fact that Clarus was in the ballroom and not by his dad’s side was another thing, but whether or not he was concerned Noctis couldn’t tell, as he had been too caught up in conversation with a group of some of the nobles attending the party.   
  
Noctis pulled his phone out of his pocket, trying to act casual about it. There was only so much he could do to entertain Christos in place of his dad, but he didn’t want to appear in a hurry to get rid of him.   
  
He frowned at the phone. He’d had it on silent for the party, something he almost regretted now, as there was a message from his dad a short while ago, simply reading, _‘Please come to my rooms. I need to speak with you about something. Privately.’_   
  
Noctis stared at the message. What did they need to talk about _now_ of all times, when he was nearly an hour late to the party?   
  
“Is everything well, Your Highness?” Christos was coming closer again, a new glass of water in his hand. Noctis wondered if he was trying to keep a clear head for the business deal later. “I do hope nothing is wrong with your father, it’s not like him to be so late.”   
  
“Uh, yeah,” Noctis pocketed his phone. “I’m actually gonna go and see what’s holding him up.” He tried for a smile and a casual shrug. “Probably just a stuck zipper or something, right?”   
  
Christos smiled and held up his glass in a mock toast. “That would certainly be one for the books.”   
  
“Yeah,” Noctis said, and he tipped his head a little, “Please, excuse me.”   
  
“Certainly.”   
  
He was halfway to the doors when Ignis appeared at his side, leaning close and murmuring. “Everything alright?”   
  
“Yeah,” Noctis glanced up at him. “I’ll be right back. Dad wants to see me in his rooms.”   
  
Ignis frowned a little at that. “Do you want me to accompany you?”   
  
“No, uh, he wants to see me on my own.” Ignis didn’t look any less puzzled about that, so Noctis reached up and patted him on the shoulder. “Just wait here, okay? I’ll be right back.”   
  
Ignis nodded. “Very well. I’ll inform Gladio he's to stay here as well, then?”   
  
“Yeah, thanks.”   
  
He glanced back at them both as he reached the main doors, and they were watching him in return. They seemed to be more confused than unhappy about remaining behind, but they obeyed and weren’t moving to follow him.   
  
Making his way through the empty corridors and taking the elevator felt strange. He was used to servants and guards occasionally passing by, but now he only had his own footsteps to listen to, and everything else seemed so painfully quiet. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and sent another message to his dad, hoping he could find out what this was about before he arrived. He hoped it _was_ something as simple as a stuck zipper, although why his dad would want to talk to him privately while they had a party going on was beyond him.   
  
By the time he reached his dad’s rooms, he hadn’t received any further messages. He pocketed his phone with a frustrated huff as he entered.   
  
“Dad, I’m here,” he called out. The rooms seemed as horribly quiet as outside. His dad wasn’t in the reception area, but he found him further in, inside the study and standing by one of the windows, staring outside. “You’re missing the party,” Noctis said. “What’d you want to see me about?”   
  
His dad didn’t answer, didn’t move, simply stood as still as a statue. He was, Noctis noticed, completely dressed and ready for the party.   
  
Noctis frowned and stepped closer, making his way around the couches. “Dad?” It wasn’t like him to be so quiet and to _ignore_ him like this. Was he angry or something? “Is something wrong?”   
  
Silence.   
  
He swallowed down his nervousness, his frustration and worry growing. “Why aren’t you saying anything?”   
  
Damn it, was something wrong with him? Was he sick? Maybe he should have talked to Clarus or Cor before he had left the party, maybe they knew something he didn’t.   
  
It was just so unnerving, the way he wasn’t moving or speaking, not even acknowledging Noctis’s presence, and Noctis couldn’t decide if he wanted to go right up to him and see for himself if something was wrong, or if he wanted to rush back to the ballroom to get Clarus.   
  
He sighed, and stepped closer. “Dad,” he called out, keeping his voice soft. If his dad was angry with him, if this was about their disagreement yesterday, then that could be why he was so quiet. Although Noctis had never known him to give him the silent treatment before, and he had _thought_ they were on good terms again.   
  
He was close enough to make out the side of his face now, still staring out of the window and at the city beyond. He looked strangely blank, like he was lost in thought.   
  
Noctis stared at him, staying still, waiting for his presence to be acknowledged. When nothing happened, that worry was back, stronger than before, and he glanced back towards the door with a growing lump in his throat. “I’m gonna go and get Clarus, okay?” he said, turning back to his dad. “Dad—”   
  
Movement. Small sparks, like tiny crystals in the air, and a dagger was in his dad’s hand.   
  
Noctis frowned. “Dad?”   
  
It swung for Noctis.   
  
He jumped backwards, but not quite quick enough. The blade swiped across his chest, tearing into the material, nicking against his skin, and he stumbled backwards in shock, pressing his hand to the tear. “Dad, what the _hell_?”   
  
His dad lunged for him, dagger held up. Noctis only just managed to dodge out of the way again, ducking under his arm, doing it again when he swung once more. Noctis grabbed his dad’s wrist with both of his hands, holding it up above his head before twisting, knocking the dagger from his grasp. It dropped, disappearing in mid-air.   
  
A fist collided with his face. He fell backwards, colliding with the chairs at the desk, his arm flailing out to grab at something to break his fall. He only succeeded in knocking everything over, falling with them with a clatter. Then his dad’s hands were on him again, grabbing him by his jacket and hauling him up, throwing him over towards the wall. He crashed into a lamp, wincing when he thought he heard the bulb inside break as they both fell to the floor.  
  
Noctis stumbled to his feet with a groan, quickly looking up to see his dad approaching. “Dad, stop it!” He ducked, avoiding another punch. It landed straight into the glass of one of the paintings and Noctis winced at the force of it. “The hell’s gotten into you?” he yelled. “It’s _me_! Come on!”   
  
But his dad wasn’t listening, and he had the dagger again. Noctis wasn’t quick enough to get out of the way; it sliced across the top of his right arm, blood smearing against the wall when he stumbled back against it. He thought he could feel warm droplets running down his skin beneath his shirt.  
  
“Dad!” he called out again, but there was no use. There was no life in his dad’s eyes, in his face; he seemed completely emotionless. Noctis had to wonder if he even knew what he was doing at this point, if he knew _who_ he was attacking.   
  
A quick flash of crystals. The dagger was gone, instead replaced with a sword.   
  
Noctis ran.   
  
There was a heavy thud and the sound of something falling over, and he dreaded the idea that his dad had just _thrown_ that weapon at him, that he might try to warp-strike or use the magic the Crystal gave to him. Noctis might have been able to handle close-combat, even if his dad had both a height and strength advantage over him; but there was nothing he would be able to do to fight against magic, especially not when he was powerless in that department himself.   
  
Whatever had happened to his dad, this wasn’t something he could face on his own. He needed backup.   
  
He stumbled out into the corridor and turned, heading back towards the elevator. There was a crash, and he glanced back to see his dad following him, running after him with his sword still out. His free hand was held up, pointing towards Noctis.   
  
Not to attack him. He only realised too late, saw the magic barrier forming at the end of the corridor, cutting him off from the elevator. Noctis stumbled into it, palms smacking against the surface. He pulled one of his hands back, clenched it into a fist, and swung. It didn’t work. No matter how hard he beat on it, the barrier wasn’t breaking.   
  
Footsteps behind him. Noctis turned and ducked, avoiding the sword as it swung for him. He started moving again, ducking under his dad’s arm, stumbling back down the corridor. If he couldn’t use the elevator, then he would just have to take the stairs.   
  
Providing his dad didn’t keep cutting him off with his magic.   
  
He just had to be quick about it then.   
  
He yanked out his phone out of his pocket as he ran, although he wouldn’t be able to use it properly as he couldn’t afford the distraction. His dad was a full-fledged warrior, battle scarred and with years of experience on his side. A simple few seconds of distraction on Noctis’s part could easily be the end for him.   
  
He could, however, bring up the menu and press the emergency icon. He had never had to use it before, and he couldn’t believe he had to use it _now_ , but it could say more than any frantic phone call could. Every crownsguard’s phone would be setting off with the alarm, letting them know that he was in danger, showing his location using the tracking on his phone. It was only a matter of time before _someone_ got there to help him. He just had to hope they arrived in time.   
  
The Citadel was a maze at the best of times, confusing to those who weren’t used to it. But Noctis had grown up here, he knew every shortcut, every corridor that linked to each other, every hiding place. He would have to keep changing directions if he wanted to lose his dad, or avoid giving him the chance to create more barriers.   
  
So he switched corridors as soon as he could, heart already pounding painfully in his chest, his lungs burning, skin feeling freezing cold and prickling. And still he could hear his dad chasing him, footsteps echoing up through the corridor, and it felt _worse_ with the fact that he never spoke, never said a word, never called out to him. He was silent as he chased after him.   
  
Damn it, but he hated the fact that most of the guards were at the party, others guarding the entrances to the Citadel. It had been natural at the time, protocol and all that, but they were _there_ when he needed them _here_ , he couldn’t face his dad on his own, he didn’t _want_ to—   
  
God, why was this happening? Why was he doing this?   
  
The doors to the stairwell nearly slammed off their hinges when he burst through. He jumped down the first flight of stairs, using the railing to pull himself along and around, heart leaping when he heard his dad enter up above.   
  
He kept going, sometimes jumping down flights of stairs, gripping tightly onto the railing so he couldn’t fall. He wouldn’t be able to keep the gap between them forever, and it was probably only a matter of time before another barrier showed up. He needed to get out of sight, _now_ , forget making his way back to the ballroom.   
  
Noctis slammed his way out of the next doorway he came across, and he didn’t stop running. If he remembered correctly, there was a hidden passageway nearby, the entrance inside one of the offices, and it came out near the throne room. There would be guards there, right? There usually was, but things could be different tonight for the party.   
  
If he could just get in there without his dad seeing—   
  
Hands grabbed him from behind, dragging him backwards. Noctis cried out in shock, heart leaping in his throat as he caught sight of his dad’s face before he was shoved into the wall. He fell, dazed, the world a little dizzying for a moment. His dad had his sword again, lifting it high and swinging it back down, aimed directly for his body.   
  
Noctis grit his teeth and rolled out of the way. Every bit of training in him screamed for him to fight back, to defend himself the way he was meant to, but he didn’t want to fight his dad, he didn’t want to attack or hurt him, _especially_ if something was wrong with him. He rolled again, dodging another swing of the sword, and swept his leg out, taking his dad’s feet out from under him. He went down heavily, sword clattering to the side and Noctis scrambled to get back up, running again.   
  
Another barrier was forming in front of him, where the corridor broke into an intersection. Noctis managed to get through just in time, quickly turning right and ducking into the office, trying to shut the door quietly.   
  
It was one of the older offices, more decorative, occupied by the more higher ranking members of the crownsguard. For a moment, he was grateful for the building he lived in, its history and the paranoia of those before them. There were all sorts of escape tunnels hidden around, especially on these few floors. All he had to do was rush over to the bookcases lining the wall to the left, reaching to the back of one of the shelves and pressing in the small button hidden away there.   
  
A small click, and he could pull on the bookcase, revealing the hidden doorway behind it. He stepped inside and grabbed the small handle on the back of the bookcase, pulling it closed like a door, waiting until he heard the telltale click of it moving back into place before he let go.   
  
Noctis tried to breathe slowly, quietly, willing his heart stop hammering the way it was, and he began to move again, creeping along and trying to keep his footsteps light. The passageway was tiny, barely any space for him to fit, and it was pitch black, so he pulled his phone back out of his pocket. There were countless messages coming in, from Ignis, Gladio, Cor, but he couldn’t stop to read them now, and he imagined being silent would alert them even further anyway.   
  
He held his phone up, letting it light the way as he shuffled along, one hand on the wall to keep himself grounded. He found that his fingers were shaking.   
  
He didn’t understand. What had _happened_ , why was his dad doing this? Clearly it wasn’t willingly; there was no way his dad would ever hurt him, and his face had looked far too empty, too unaware of what was going on and who was at the receiving end of his attacks.   
  
But then what did that leave? Was he drunk? Was he sick? Maybe he was delirious from a fever, hallucinating things that weren’t there, seeing Noctis as something that he wasn’t.   
  
He ignored the fact that his dad hadn’t _looked_ sick, and he was moving around well enough.   
  
Noctis paused, holding his breath, looking towards the inner wall. The walls of the passageways weren’t exactly soundproof, but they were thick and his footsteps shouldn’t have been carrying over into the rooms, but he could have sworn he’d just heard something on the other side. He had been walking long enough that he must have been passing a completely different office now, getting closer to the throne room, and he had been so certain that his dad hadn’t seen him enter the passageway, but what if he had? What if he was following on the other side, trying to predict where he was?  
  
Could he hear something now? He stood still, facing the dark wall in front of him, pressing his back against the stone of the outer wall, heart pounding so hard he felt nearly sick with it.   
  
To his left, the wall exploded inwards, a weapon emerging from the debris and slamming against the stone of the outer wall. Noctis pressed his phone against his chest, blocking the light, and pressed his free hand against his mouth to stop any sound from escaping. If he didn’t react, maybe his dad would think he wasn’t there, that he had moved on.   
  
Another explosion, again to the left, a greatsword bursting through.   
  
Another explosion, to his right, so close dust rained over him and stung his eyes. Noctis forced himself to stay where he was, watching as the mace disappeared, ice running through him at the sight of it. His dad was using the royal arms, _shit_ , no _wonder_ they were strong enough to smash through the walls.   
  
God, _where_ was the crownsguard? Hadn’t it been enough time for _someone_ to show up? Did they think it was a false alarm or something, despite the fact that Noctis had _never_ tripped it before?   
  
_Dad, please go away, I’m not here. I’m not here._   
  
Another explosion. A sword ripped through the wall and sliced against Noctis’s side. He cried out against his hand, pain shooting up and down his stomach. He could already feel blood soaking his clothes.   
  
He had to go. He had to _go_ , he had made a noise and now his dad _knew_ he was there—   
  
Noctis ripped himself away from the wall, holding his phone up to light the way again, stumbling his way through the passage as weapon after weapon ploughed through, shooting through the wall with abandon. And then they stopped, but he didn’t know if his dad was now behind him or if he had left that office and was coming into a different one.   
  
He didn’t want to wait to find out.   
  
The end of the passage was coming up. Noctis slammed his body against the bookshelf built into the wall, pushing it away, stumbling into a new, untouched office. He rushed through the room as fast as he could, stumbling past desks, knocking things over on the way.   
  
He was where he wanted to be, in the corridor beside the throne room, the one that led out into the balcony where the council sat. He ran that way now. If he could just get down somehow, then he could make his way out, find _someone_ to help him, there _had_ to be someone nearby.   
  
He came out into the throne room, reaching the balcony, trying to gauge the distance. It’d probably hurt his legs slightly, but he could make it no problem, he could jump from here to where the throne was—   
  
He could hear footsteps approaching, but he didn’t wait to see if it was someone coming to help or not. He gripped the edge of the balcony, began to climb on top of the edge—   
  
A body slammed into him from behind and they toppled over the balcony, down to the steps below, too fast, too suddenly, not at the right angle or direction. He had been aiming for the throne, but his dad had knocked them off course, down towards the stairs, where the drop was the highest. Noctis landed heavy on his side and pain exploded along his ribs as he rolled, tumbling down the steps. He heard an awful crack and his dad let out an anguished cry, falling down and landing beside him on the dais.   
  
Noctis could only stare up at the high ceiling for a moment, gasping, pain shooting up and down whenever he breathed in. He felt along his ribs and grimaced, nearly groaned at the pain there. He looked over at his dad beside him and his nausea grew. Was that _bone_ coming out of his right leg? He must have landed on it and that had been the cracking sound.   
  
Which meant he was incapacitated for now. Which meant Noctis still had a chance of getting away. He tried to move, tried to get up, but the pain in his ribs was breathtaking, flaring up at any slight movement, and he felt disoriented from the fall. He looked around, spotted his phone near the edge of the dais, half hanging over the step.   
  
He had to get that. He needed it, if he wanted to get out of here. He needed people to be able to track his phone to know where he was.   
  
Noctis pulled himself along the floor, groaning at the pain, stretching his arm out for it. There were noises from behind him, heavy shuffling sounds, and his heart hammered in his chest again. He pulled himself further along, quickly, desperate as those noises built and built, coming closer and closer to him—   
  
A hand closed around his ankle and dragged him back. “No!” he cried out, hands scrambling, fingers clawing at the tiles as he tried to reach his phone. He kicked the hands grabbing at him, but he was pulled back again, more roughly—   
  
Something slammed into his left shoulder, pierced through him. The pain was cold and hot and _numbing_ and Noctis gasped wetly, frozen by it, hands clenching against the floor. The back of his shirt felt wet. Something ripped out of his shoulder and he was dragged backwards again.   
  
He turned over, threw his arm out just in time. The dagger, tinged red, came down and slashed against his forearm. Noctis grit his teeth and grabbed his dad’s wrists, struggling to push it away, and it was just like it was back in study, except he was too exhausted and in pain this time, his arms shaking from the struggle.   
  
Damn it, he didn’t want to _hurt_ his dad, he had been trying to avoid that, but he could feel himself growing weaker and more tired. The back of his shirt and jacket felt wetter by the moment, sticking to him, warm and disgusting. If he didn’t put up a fight _now_ —   
  
Noctis brought his knee up, aimed it straight for his dad’s groin. The force behind the dagger wavered as a pained breath exploded against his face, and Noctis twisted their arms to the side. He brought a fist up, slammed it into the side of his dad’s jaw once, twice, knocking him off balance. He managed to grip the handle of the dagger and yanked it away, tossing it aside, listening as the metal scraped along the floor.   
  
A fist slammed into his face. Noctis’s ears rang from the force of it, his head snapping to the side, but there was no time to process. Another fist hit him, on the other side, and again and again, until he was dizzy from the blows, his dad’s face a swaying image above him.   
  
The hands grabbed the side of his head, lifted it and slammed it down once, twice, three times, maybe more.   
  
His vision went black for a moment.   
  
When it came back, the face above him was hazy, focusing in and out. Noctis tried to push his dad away, groaning, but his hands were sloppy, heavy and uncoordinated, merely flapped against his jacket. Those hands holding onto him reached down, wrapped around his throat—   
  
He couldn’t breathe.   
  
He couldn’t _breathe_ , and—   
  
He tried to grab the hands, his fingers wrapped around those wrists, but he couldn’t _do_ anything, he couldn’t move, his whole body slow and _hurting_ , and his vision was going dark again, black encroaching on the edges.  
  
"Dad, stop," he choked out, but it was barely a sound, and it  _hurt_ to say. " _Please._ "  
  
It was useless. He could only stare up at his dad, his face blurry through tears. Noctis tried to call out again, but he could only croak, his voice stolen from him, cut off as those fingers squeezed at his throat until he thought it would crush.   
  
He was going to die, wasn’t he? His own father was going to kill him, and he didn’t know _why_ , and this would _destroy_ him. Noctis knew that without a doubt; once his dad realised what he’d done, it would be his ruin.   
  
_Dad. Dad, please—_   
  
Noctis clenched his fingers against those strong wrists. His vision was nearly black, heart pounding frantically in his chest and in his ears, his whole face feeling tight and strange—and he was getting weaker now, unconsciousness pulling him in, dragging him down and under, and—   
  
A distant bang, the echo like an explosion in the throne room, and a voice screamed, “Regis!”   
  
A body collided with his dad, rolling him off of Noctis. He thought he cried out at the pain, his head falling to the side. Someone was holding his dad down, trapping his flailing arms and ignoring his screaming, god, his dad was _screaming_ , and Noctis could only watch, coughing and struggling to pull in air.   
  
More footsteps rushed closer, and someone said, “No, I have him! Check the prince!”   
  
Boots came towards him, and the fingers were gentle this time as they pressed against his throat, near his pulse point. “Your Highness? Your Highness, can you hear me?” the voice was desperate and panicked and familiar.   
  
Noctis looked up at the face hovering over his. Cor, it was _Cor_ , they’d finally come to help. He tried to speak, tried to croak back, but he couldn’t, it _hurt_ , and _still_ his dad was yelling, struggling to get closer.   
  
There was a thud and his dad stopped screaming.   
  
Cor’s head snapped towards that direction. “Did you just—”   
  
“Do _not_ think about it. The prince? Is he _alive_?”   
  
“He’s alive, he— _no_ , Your Highness, stay awake. _Noctis_! You have to stay _awake_!”   
  
But he couldn’t, everything hurt too much and he couldn’t hold on or stay awake, his eyes falling shut no matter how hard he tried to fight against it. Everything was too slow, too cold, too far beyond his reach.   
  
_Dad_.   
  
The darkness pulled him under.   
  
  
~ &~   
  
  
Every crownsguard officer’s phone was set to go off when certain unique alarms triggered them. One for the king, and one for the prince. A map of the Citadel would automatically be brought onto the screen and they would be shown a live tracking of whoever had triggered the alarm.   
  
It had never been used before.   
  
So when Ignis’s phone had started continuously shrilling out a sound he had never heard, he didn’t know what to think at first. Not until he noticed he wasn’t the only one, and not until he saw the map on his screen with the tiny indicator showing Noctis’s phone on the move, far from his father’s rooms.   
  
On the run. In _danger_.   
  
The crownsguard moved fast, Clarus and Cor both barking out orders, and within seconds the party was coming to a halt, the guests sealed inside and remaining under guard while other officers rushed off, some heading to the king's rooms and others attempting to find the prince.   
  
It shouldn’t have been as hard as it was, and yet Ignis and Gladio found themselves having to take longer routes, some corridors cut off by magic barriers of all things. Too often they came across groups of crownsguard officers trying to beat their way through walls of magic, to no avail. And all the while they had to adapt to Noctis’s chaotic, unpredictable route. The king’s phone seemed to be in his private quarters still, but there was no doubt that Noctis was no longer in there.   
  
Ignis’s heart pounded whenever he checked that little icon on the map, disliking the implications of it all.   
  
When they finally reached the throne room, when they caught up with Clarus and Cor, they stepped into a nightmare and Ignis’s heart nearly stopped altogether.   
  
“Dad!” Gladio yelled, and they both ran across the room.   
  
Clarus barely glanced their way. He held the king down, ignoring the pained cries coming from him and the way he struggled. “See to the prince,” he barked out. “Medics are on their way.”   
  
“What—”   
  
“ _Now_ , Gladiolus! No questions!”   
  
Gladio knelt beside Cor, Noctis on the floor in front of them. “Here,” Cor said, removing his hand from under Noctis so Gladio could take over instead. “He has a wound right here. Keep pressure on it. Do _not_ move his head.”   
  
“I know my first aid, Cor,” Gladio grit out, but his voice was weak, shaky in a way that Ignis had never heard. “Ignis, are you gonna help, or are you just gonna stand there?”   
  
Ignis could only stare down at Noctis. He hadn’t moved, not in the slightest, remaining so still and so small. Blood was welling up from the splits in his cheeks, it pooled out from under him, stained Gladio’s hand where he held it under Noctis’s shoulder.   
  
He’d lost all colour in his face and he wasn’t _moving_. Was he even alive?   
  
“Ignis!” Gladio hissed out. “Come on, focus. He needs you.”   
  
Ignis let out a breath and knelt down. There were other wounds too, other tears in his suit. The one on his side was still bleeding a little, so Ignis pulled out his handkerchief and pressed the material against it.   
  
Noctis didn’t react. Not a groan, not even a twitch.   
  
Ignis glanced up over at the king. He seemed to be injured too, his right leg looking a little limp and awkward, but Clarus and Cor weren’t seeing to it. Instead, they were pinning him to the floor, tying his wrists up behind his back, and it was only then that Ignis realised the king’s wordless noises weren’t of pain or distress, but of _anger_. He wasn’t tense because he was hurting, he was trying to push up and out of their grip.   
  
He thought he could see red on the king’s knuckles, his skin wet with blood.   
  
Heart in his throat, he looked back down at Noctis, at his swelling face and his bloodied cheeks, at the tears in his clothes - as if _blades_ had ripped through them - and he felt cold at the sickening realisation of what might have happened.   
  
Gladio was staring at the king too, jaw slack, face paling. “Ignis,” he whispered, “please tell me he didn’t do this.”   
  
Ignis pressed his lips together and shook his head, his eyes on Noctis’s face. “I don’t know.”   
  
Gladio swore under his breath.   
  
Noctis was still so quiet, so unresponsive, it was more than a little frightening. Keeping one hand pressed against his wound, Ignis reached out and gently touched the side of Noctis’s throat, feeling his pulse through the flesh. It was a small comfort.   
  
He kept his fingers there until the medics arrived.   
  
  
~ &~   
  
  
_(Now)_   
  
Memories were slowly coming through now, fuzzy flashes and sensations that left him feeling dizzy and confused and, most of all, _devastated_.   
  
He had hurt Noctis. His _boy_ , he had hurt his boy. He had assaulted him, hunted him down like an animal, had turned the sanctuary of their home into an unsafe place where he had to run and hide and fear for his life.   
  
And then he had tried to kill him. He had wrapped his hands around Noctis’s throat and had squeezed the life out of him, watched as the fight drained from his body and the light faded from his eyes, those trembling hands as weak as butterflies as they tried to push Regis away.   
  
How could he ever live with himself after this?   
  
“We’re ordering for Christos’s arrest,” Clarus said from beside the bed. “Gladiolus and Ignis are heading that way now.”   
  
Christos. When Regis closed his eyes, he could see the image of him sitting beside him on the couch in his study. Most of the words he said were faraway, a little fuzzy, but Regis could recall the bone-chilling ‘ _you will kill your son’_ with absolute clarity. An order, one he hadn’t been able to disobey.   
  
Perhaps he shouldn’t feel so surprised and betrayed by all of this, but he did.   
  
“Can you remember anything more yet?”   
  
Regis shook his head.   
  
“It wasn’t you, Regis.”   
  
Regis tugged on his bound wrists, indicating to his knuckles. “No?”   
  
Clarus stared down at them, lips pressed together, but he still shook his head. “Whatever the wine was laced with must have been  _strong_. I doubt there was any possibility that you could have resisted it.”   
  
“I should have tried. For Noct.”   
  
Clarus opened his mouth to say something, but cut himself off and turned as Cor came back through. “Well?”   
  
Cor’s face was unreadable as he stopped beside the bed, glancing back and forth between the two of them. “The doctors are confident they can administer you some pain relief now. It seems this thing is no longer active, and they’re fairly certain it won't reactivate again. We can untie you and let them see to you now.”   
  
After a beat of silence, Clarus said, “What else?”   
  
Cor lowered his eyes, his face grim. “It’s the prince.”   
  
Something cold settled into Regis’s stomach, freezing his veins as if the Glacian herself had touched him. “What about him?” he said, and his voice was weak even to his own ears, barely there. It was a miracle Cor heard him at all.   
  
“His brain is bleeding,” Cor said, straight to the point as ever, although it looked as if it pained him to say it. It hurt even worse to hear. “The doctors are administering drugs to try and help, but they don’t seem optimistic about it.”   
  
Clarus swallowed audibly. “Perhaps surgery?”   
  
Cor shook his head. “They said it doesn’t look like even that will help him now.”   
  
Regis couldn’t breathe. His chest felt too tight, crushing in on him, his heartbeat loud in his ears. They were both talking to him now, coming closer, but he couldn’t focus on what they were saying, couldn’t hear anything beyond the screaming in his head that Noctis was—   
  
He was dying, wasn’t he? Noctis was _dying_ and it was his fault.   
  
“Take me to him,” Regis choked out. “Get me out of this damn bed and take me to him.”   
  
Clarus was frowning. “Regis, I’m not sure—”   
  
“That’s why I’m here,” Cor cut him off. “They think magic might be his only shot.”   
  
Clarus had his hands on Regis’s shoulders, trying to push him back down onto the bed. “Is that advisable?” he barked out, eyes on Cor. “What of the toll his body and mind has been through tonight?”   
  
“Clarus, let go,” Regis snapped. “You can’t keep me tied down to this bed anymore, I am no longer a danger to anyone.”   
  
“You are a danger to yourself if you use such powerful magic after what your body has been put through.” Clarus looked back over to Cor. “We can ask one of the glaives, perhaps. I know a few of those have become quite skilled medics.”   
  
“No!” Regis said. “Their magic won’t be as strong. _I_ am the one that did this to him, Clarus. I have to do all I can to save him.”   
  
Clarus stared him down, and Regis could understand his apprehension. Healing magic was one of the hardest to cast, harder still the more the body had been put through, and not one of them had any idea what side effects might arise with the Accordian wine still in his system, whether the drug was active or not.   
  
But he had to do this. He had to set things at least a little bit right. He couldn’t take tonight and his appalling actions back, but he could save his son’s life and ease his pain, heal those wounds Regis had inflicted with his own two hands.   
  
Clarus seemed to understand. He sighed and marched out of the room, calling out to the nurses for them to find a temporary wheelchair while Cor came closer and untied his bonds at last.   
  
“Will you be alright to move your leg?” Cor asked.   
  
“I’ll bear it,” Regis said. It still hurt, but it was nothing compared to what Noctis was suffering through.   
  
Between the three of them and a few nurses, they managed to get him into a wheelchair with his heavily splintered leg propped up, and Clarus didn’t delay in wheeling him out of the room. The medical wing seemed busier than usual, people bustling around and talking loudly, the lights bright enough to hurt Regis’s eyes, but perhaps that was just him feeling too sensitive to sounds and movement, his mind and body still feeling slow and struggling to catch up.   
  
Noctis wasn’t too far away from his room, and Regis’s heart sank when they wheeled him in. Bandages and gauze pads covered his stomach, his arm, his shoulders. Small butterfly bandages covered his cheeks, closing the cuts there. His face was swollen on both sides and a memory hit Regis full force, of his knuckles connecting with skin, knocking his head back and forth. It was a wonder he hadn’t broken any bones, both in his hands and in Noctis’s cheeks.   
  
He was hooked up to all kinds of things. Drugs, a heart monitor, an oxygen mask. It made him look so fragile, as still as he had once been years and years ago, and it physically _hurt_ to see him like this all over again and know that it was his fault this time, that _he_ had done this. Clarus, Cor, _anyone_ , they could all argue that it wasn’t his fault but it _was_.   
  
“Noct,” he breathed out as he was wheeled to the bed. He pressed his hand against Noctis’s, chest aching at how limp and lifeless those fingers were. “Noct, I’m here. I’m going to help you.”   
  
“Careful, Regis,” Clarus murmured as Regis shifted closer. It was so hard to move with his leg propped up and held out straight, and he growled in frustration, so they manoeuvred the wheelchair until he was sideways beside the bed. It was awkward as he turned his body and reached out, but at least it meant his leg wasn’t in the way.   
  
Regis leaned as far as he could and pressed his hands carefully against Noctis’s head, one touching the skin of his forehead, the other resting in his hair near the back. He closed his eyes and he concentrated, pushing away the harsh images that fought to the surface, the memories of dragging his son across the floor, his hands wrapped around that throat, smaller hands desperately fighting back.   
  
He fought through the images and he willed his magic to surface and flow through him, to flow down his arms and pool in his hands and fingers, to travel into Noctis. The last time he had healed someone had been decades ago, and nothing as serious as this, and for a moment he was half-scared, _terrified_ even, that it wouldn’t work, that his body was too worn down to help.   
  
But he _had_ to help. The glaives—their magic might not be strong enough, and it wasn’t as if they could give Noctis potions. His magic wasn’t yet active to make any use of them, it would be as useless as giving him water.   
  
A hand touched Regis’s shoulder, and Clarus murmured, “Regis, please—”   
  
Regis shrugged the hand off, kept his eyes squeezed shut, focusing on his magic. _Please,_ please _. Help me save my son._   
  
After a moment, he felt it, the coolness of it along his skin, vibrant and refreshing and familiar. He pushed it through his hands and into Noctis, let it build until it was a mass of energy, perhaps using more than he should as he tried to heal everything he had done. From the head injury to the cuts on his face, the wounds on his shoulders, his arm, his side, his chest.   
  
He opened his eyes, afraid he might be imagining it, but he could see the wounds on Noctis’s face closing, signs that it was working. Regis let out a breath of relief, it rushed out of him as if he had been hit, but he didn’t stop even as he felt his energy draining and he heard the blood rushing in his ears.   
  
“Alright,” Clarus said eventually. “I think that will enough.”   
  
“A little longer,” Regis said.   
  
“You’re draining yourself, Regis. You need to rest.”   
  
A nurse stepped closer, pulled away the gauze along Noctis’s ribs and feeling along the flesh. It was unmarred, as if it hadn’t been harmed at all. “I think you’ve done it, Your Majesty,” she said softly. “Although we’ll need to perform more examinations on his head to see if it’s properly healed.”   
  
Regis let Clarus pull his hand away, and he missed the feel of Noctis’s hair beneath his fingers already. “You’ll come for me if you need more assistance,” he said.   
  
She bowed her head. “Certainly.”   
  
“Come,” Clarus said. “Now we need to get you seen to.”   
  
He felt exhausted as Clarus began to wheel the chair backwards and away from Noctis’s bed, and he wanted nothing more than to reach out again, to _stay_ , to be with his son. But he knew he would only be in the way, and now he had to let the doctors do what they did best.   
  
Besides, he doubted he really deserved to stay in the first place.   
  
  
~&~   
  
  
Ignis wasn’t officially crownsguard yet, not for another year or so and once he had his examination, but he wasn’t about to argue against this opportunity. Not when anger was coursing through his veins the way it was, hot and burning and overwhelming. He prided himself on being able to think clearly in any situation, on keeping a level head no matter what, but this time he couldn’t.   
  
Gladio was checking his phone once more. “Dad has people searching Christos’s room for any more evidence, but we need to search his pockets for a hip flask and some gadget. Apparently he used both of them on the king.”   
  
“Let’s get this over with quickly, then,” Ignis said. This entire night had been absolutely draining on all of them, and the sooner they could wrap things up, the sooner they could begin damage control. And - most importantly - the sooner he could get back to the medical wing to check on Noctis. He had to know how it was going, he had to know he was going to be okay.   
  
“Yeah,” Gladio pocketed his phone. He glanced back at the guards following them, motioning for them to stop. “Wait here for us, we don’t wanna alert him and have him cause a scene.”   
  
They nodded, staying put in the corridor as the two of them made their way through the doors. Ignis led the way, Gladio by his side as they marched across the room, once more, to Christos.   
  
“Back again?” he glanced up at them. “Are you here to take my other servant?”   
  
“No,” Gladio said.   
  
Christos stood, holding his head high as he stared them both down. It wasn’t too intimidating, especially since they were taller than he was. “Well, are you going to bring the other one back? I don’t care for my staff being absconded with, you understand.”   
  
“Your servant is currently being questioned,” Ignis said. “As for our presence, we’re here to ask you to come with us.”   
  
Christos blinked. “Am I to see the king now? Are you going to tell me just _what_ is going on here?”   
  
Ignis remained still, staring him down. “Don’t misunderstand me,” he said. “We’re here to arrest you, Lord Silvius, so if you’ll come with us—”   
  
“I _beg_ your pardon?” Christos snapped. “ _Arrest_ me? How dare you, you insolent little—”   
  
“Careful now,” Gladio warned, voice low. “We don’t want a scene.”   
  
“You _boys_ have no authority to—”   
  
Ignis cut him off. “We have explicit permission to detain you from the captain of the crownsguard himself,” he paused, stepped closer, keeping his voice low in case anyone else was listening, and he didn’t bother to hide the anger in his voice as he said, “and considering you are under suspicion of attempted murder by proxy, as well as other serious charges, I’d suggest you choose your words and actions carefully.”   
  
“You have no basis for these charges,” Christos hissed out.   
  
“We have all the evidence we need,” Gladio said. He stepped forward and acted quickly, grabbed both of Christos’s arms and forced them behind his back.   
  
Christos struggled, started writhing in his grasp as he yelled, “Get your hands off me! You have no right!” He was no match for Gladio however, and he could barely even move.   
  
Ignis fought back a wince, well aware of people gasping and beginning to look their way. He nodded his head at Gladio and they quickly moved for the doors, taking an angry and shouting Christos with them. “Let go of me! Right now!” he was shouting, and then he grunted as Gladio shoved him up against the corridor wall, holding him there while the waiting crownsguard searched his pockets.   
  
It wasn’t long before one of the guards was pulling out the hip flask mentioned to them, as well as a small device from one of the inner pockets in Christos’s suit jacket. It looked like a music player, perhaps discreet enough if someone came across it in another situation entirely, but all too damning now with the information they had.   
  
Christos was no longer struggling in Gladio’s arms, glaring at them as he was pulled away from the wall, his arms still trapped behind his back.   
  
Ignis stared down at the device in the guard’s hand, watching as it was quickly wrapped up in plastic bag to be taken in as evidence and further examined. “Christos Silvius,” Ignis stepped forward, “We’re placing you under arrest for the attempted murder of the crown prince. Gladio and the crownsguard officers will escort you to a cell, where you will remain until you receive the king’s justice.”   
  
“The king’s justice,” Christos scoffed. “A poor excuse for a king.”   
  
“Watch your tongue,” Gladio snapped. “You’re only making this worse for yourself.”   
  
Christos shook his head, but there was no fight left in him now and he was limp in Gladio’s grasp. “You’d best get out while you can, boys,” he said. “Or else you’ll end up dead because of him too. So unawares, he couldn’t even protect his own son—”   
  
Ignis’s rage came back full force. He swung, _hard_ , his fist connecting with a sickening crack, and Christos stumbled in Gladio’s grasp with a cry, blood spurting from his nose.   
  
“Ignis!” Gladio shouted.   
  
The two crownsguard officers were leaping into action, grabbing him and pulling him back, holding on tightly until he stopped struggling. Ignis grit his teeth and glared at Christos, his breath coming out of him harshly, blood rushing in his ears. To hear him even speak of Noctis, after what he had done, after what Noctis had to go through tonight, as if this was _anyone’s_ fault but his own—   
  
“Hey,” Gladio was saying, voice sharp, “Ignis, I’ve got this. How about you go and check on Noct, yeah? Go and see how he’s doing?”   
  
“Yes, how is he doing?” Christos smirked. It seemed as if all pretence of innocence had been thrown out, spite and malice in his eyes for them all to see. “I’m honestly surprised he’s still alive, he seemed to be even more pathetic than that father of his—”   
  
“You shut your mouth,” Gladio snapped out.   
  
Ignis struggled against the guards holding onto him, wanting nothing more than to hit Christos again, but it was no use, they were too strong, their grip too tight and unrelenting. He clenched his hands into fists. The knuckles on his right hand were stinging from the blow, but he didn’t care. Christos’s nose looked a little off-centre, and he felt a flash of satisfaction. It was the _least_ he deserved, it wasn’t even a scratch on the surface compared to what Noctis had suffered, and that was all because of _this man_ —   
  
“Ignis!” Gladio said. “I’ve _got_ this. Go. Check on Noct.”   
  
Ignis nodded, and the crownsguard officers let him go, albeit a little tentatively. He took a deep breath, met Gladio’s eyes over Christos’s sickeningly smug face. The three of them could handle their new prisoner without him, there was no doubt about that, but he’d also like the satisfaction of shoving this man into a cell himself.   
  
The need to see Noctis overrode that particular wish. So he let out a breath and turned, started down the corridor towards one of the elevators, ignoring every molecule of his body screaming to run back and make that man _pay_ for what he had done.   
  
But then he would be no better than Christos, would he?   
  
  
~ &~   
  
  
When Noctis opened his eyes, it was to a dimly lit hospital room and the soft sounds of a heart monitor off to his side. He felt strange, sleepy, a little floaty, but comfortable and warm.   
  
The clock on the wall showed that it was nearly three in the morning, but apparently that didn’t deter Ignis, who was sitting in the chair by the bed and scrolling through his phone. He looked tired, exhausted even, his hair not nearly as immaculately styled as it had been before the party. His knuckles were bruised.   
  
Noctis tried to say something to him, tried to come up with a snarky remark, but all that escaped his mouth was a soft, embarrassing croak.   
  
Ignis noticed anyway, eyes snapping up to him. “You’re awake,” he murmured. He pocketed his phone and reached to the bedside table, pouring a glass of water before coming closer. He had to help Noctis drink it, propping the back of his head up gently, holding the glass himself as Noctis took a sip. The water was a little lukewarm but it was soothing anyway and it helped ease away the dryness in his throat.   
  
“Thanks,” he murmured once he was done, laying back down. He reached a hand up to his throat, curious, stroking his fingers along the skin. It didn’t hurt the way he thought it would, not until he pressed down a little.   
  
“Stop that,” Ignis said quietly, pulling his hand away. “You’ll have bruises for a while, I’m afraid, both on your face and your throat. But the rest of the damage has been dealt with.”   
  
Noctis frowned up at the ceiling, then turned his head to look at Ignis. He had pulled the chair even closer to the bed, resting his elbow on the blankets, propping his head up with one hand.  
  
“You look tired,” Noctis whispered.   
  
Ignis smiled faintly, glancing away. “It’s been a long night.” He let out a soft sigh before speaking again. “Gladio was here for a while as well, but he was restless. He’s helping Cor now.”   
  
“You should go and get some sleep,” Noctis said.   
  
“I’m fine right here,” Ignis answered, still with that gentle tone. “You can go back to sleep, however. You need it.”   
  
Noctis didn’t respond to that. He let his eyes wander, over the IV line attached to his arm, the tube running along the bed and up to the pole. He looked over the bland walls, the ceiling. It was quiet out in the corridors, only the faint sounds of nurses going about their jobs.   
  
Eventually, he found the courage to swallow and ask, “My dad?”   
  
Ignis paused, then murmured, “He’s down the hall. He’s resting too.”   
  
“It wasn’t him,” Noctis said. “Something happened to him, Ignis, I _swear_ , he didn’t mean—”   
  
Ignis shushed him softly, reaching out with his free hand to touch Noctis’s wrist where it lay on the bed. “We know,” he said. “It appears your father was drugged. It was in some of the Accordian wine, a subtle substance, a little hard to find unless you knew to look for it.”   
  
Noctis blinked. “Drugged?”   
  
“Apparently it was developed in Niflheim,” Ignis said. “A substance that’s harmless enough unless the person afflicted hears a certain high pitched frequency. Then they’re put into a trance-like state where they’re susceptible to suggestion. Fortunately, it only lasts for around five hours, after that it seems to be ineffective.”   
  
“Who—” he broke off, swallowed. “I don’t get it. Who did this?”   
  
“Lord Silvius,” Ignis answered, and his lips did that small grimace thing he sometimes did when he was angry and trying to hide it. Noctis could count on one hand the amount of times he had actually seen that expression in their years together, and seeing it now was alarming. “It appears he...bore a grudge against your father. For the death of his own. This weekend, I’m afraid, wasn’t about him reuniting with the king for a business proposal between friends, but to seek out revenge.”   
  
Noctis frowned. “He wanted Dad to kill me? For revenge?”   
  
“Yes, it appears so.”   
  
Noctis let his eyes drop to the bedspread underneath Ignis’s elbow. They had come pretty close to that happening too. If he hadn’t been interrupted, his dad very well could have strangled him until he stopped breathing completely, until his heart stopped beating in his chest.   
  
All of that, everything that had happened tonight—it was all because of someone wanting _revenge_. Because they wanted his dad to suffer.   
  
“How is he?” Noctis looked back up at Ignis. “My dad. How’s he doing?”   
  
“His leg is quite badly broken,” Ignis sighed. “The drug has long worn off by now, and the doctors don’t think there will be any negative consequences from it. He’s exhausted, however. He used his magic to heal you.”   
  
Noctis blinked. “What?”   
  
“You—” Ignis broke off then, his voice a little strangled, and he swallowed thickly before continuing. “You were quite seriously hurt, Noct. I wasn’t here at the time, but a decision was made because you had a brain hemorrhage. Your father used his magic to heal you as much as he could, which is why your injuries are gone now, save for the bruises.”   
  
He hadn’t noticed they were gone. He had thought he couldn’t feel any of the pain because of the drugs, but, now that he checked, he couldn’t find any of the cuts from his dad’s weapons. He felt along his head, a shiver running through him at the fact that his _brain_ had been bleeding.   
  
Ignis smiled weakly. “Your father did a miraculous job, which is probably why he’s so exhausted. Clarus and Cor said he poured quite a lot of magic into you.”   
  
“Idiot,” Noctis breathed out, letting his head flop back down onto the pillows. Ignis smiled again. He was still resting his head on his hand, and Noctis stared at the bruised knuckles peeking out from his hair. “And what happened to you?”   
  
Ignis, to his credit, looked a little embarrassed. “Ah,” he shifted a little, cleared his throat, “I’m afraid my anger got the better of me.”   
  
Noctis raised an eyebrow.   
  
“Lord Silvius said a few things when Gladio and I were arresting him.”   
  
“You _punched_ Christos?” Noctis stared at him, hardly able to believe it, and yet Ignis’s knuckles were bruised and he had that sheepish look in his eyes. “Oh my _god_. The world’s gone crazy while I’ve been out.”   
  
Ignis rolled his eyes. “Yes, well, it’s nothing he didn’t deserve.”   
  
Noctis couldn’t argue with that. This guy had come into their home under false pretenses, had _drugged_ his dad and made him commit acts he never would have willingly done even under pain of death. If Ignis had punched him in a moment of anger, then Noctis wasn’t going to complain. It saved him the trouble of doing it himself.   
  
He yawned then, stifling it with a hand, and Ignis smiled warmly. “Go back to sleep.”   
  
“You need to sleep too,” Noctis said. “I’m okay now, Specs. Go sleep.”   
  
Ignis was silent for a moment, eyes still on him, eventually saying, “Soon. I’ll sleep soon.”   
  
“Mm,” Noctis mumbled. “Fine. Stubborn.” He rolled over onto his side to face Ignis, which was a little difficult considering how sluggish his body felt, but he was relieved that there was no pain, no broken ribs to worry about, no injuries to accidentally tear open.   
  
Ignis snorted a little. “Comfortable, Highness?”   
  
“Yeah,” Noctis grinned weakly. “Come on, you’re not gonna go and get some sleep, you can tell me everything that’s happened instead. I want the full report.”   
  
Ignis made a show of sighing heavily, eyes rolling upwards, but he obliged anyway.   
  
  
~ &~   
  
  
Eventually, he had managed to convince Ignis to go and get some rest, although he had still seemed rather reluctant and had promised - more like _threatened_ \- to return in the morning.   
  
Noctis stayed awake a little while longer, staring up at the ceiling of his hospital room, listening to the quiet sounds of nurses making their rounds. He wanted nothing more than to get up out of the bed, shuffle down the corridor and go and check on his dad, see for himself that he was okay.   
  
But he didn’t think he could move yet. Despite apparently being healed of his injuries, he was just _so tired_ , still struggling to catch up on everything that had happened, on the fact that his dad had been _drugged_ and practically mind controlled into trying to kill him.   
  
If he closed his eyes, or if he let his mind wander too much, then it came back. As if it had only been a few minutes ago, as if it had been _days_ ago. His dad’s body pinning him to the floor with his hands wrapped around his neck, unfazed by any of his choked protests or pleas.   
  
Noctis let out a sigh and ran his hand over his eyes, over his face, then winced at the slight sting that brought.   
  
They’d been _that_ close to it happening. A little while longer, and Clarus and Cor would have shown up too late, and he wouldn’t be lying here in a hospital bed.   
  
He had thought Christos was nice, that he was a good person. His dad had certainly seemed to think so. Christos had been so happy to see him again, and he had been nothing but polite and curious when asking Noctis about his life.   
  
But that wasn’t curiosity was it? It had been—what, fishing for information? Finding out what would be happening with the party so he could carry out his plans properly? It left Noctis with a bitter taste in his mouth, and he felt like such an _idiot_ for not noticing sooner. If he hadn’t come across that servant in the kitchen, he doubted he would have even clued into anything being wrong at all.   
  
Well, he wouldn’t let Christos win. His original plan might have been to have Noctis killed, to have his dad so overcome with grief and guilt that it would have destroyed him, but that had already failed, and Noctis refused to let this affect them any further. If what Ignis had heard was anything to go by, his dad was already beside himself, but Noctis wouldn’t let this damage them in any way.   
  
He refused to.   
  
  
~ &~   
  
  
It all seemed so surreal, when Regis woke the next day. There was that half-awake confusion, wondering where he was and why his body felt so sluggish, before the memories came crashing in like an angry ocean intent on drowning him.   
  
He remembered _everything_.   
  
He had to wonder if the drug had been experimental, barely out of the testing phases back in Niflheim, or if perhaps it simply wasn’t capable of completely wiping someone’s memory altogether. Christos mustn’t have known, either that or he simply didn’t care for the consequences of Regis remembering that conversation in his study.   
  
He supposed it wouldn’t have mattered. If Noctis _had_ died, whether he remembered the conversation or not wouldn’t have made a difference either way. He would have still had to live with his son’s death on his hands, and that was what Christos seemed to be truly after in the end.   
  
He could only thank the gods that it hadn’t played out that way, that Clarus and Cor had reached them in time.   
  
He could remember the rage he’d felt then, back in the throne room, as Clarus had barrelled into him and rolled him off of Noctis’s body. He had screamed and fought against them with everything he had, consumed with the need to finish what he had started, his body set only on getting back to Noctis and making him _hurt_.   
  
They were awful memories, and he almost wished the drug could have taken them away. But that wouldn’t be fair. He had to live with the guilt of his actions.  
  
To think that he had been so reluctant to let Noctis move out and live on his own, to think that he and his council were all so paranoid that something could happen to him, that the crownsguard wouldn't be able to reach him in time to save him if something went wrong. What a cruel irony it was that their very concerns had taken place under their own roof. That Regis's own need to keep his son safe had been crushed with his own two hands.  
  
Perhaps Noctis's request hadn't been so unreasonable after all.  
  
“The First Secretary has been in contact,” Cor was saying. “It’s a little complicated with the Empire breathing down our necks, but she states she can charge him with attempted murder. Or, at the very least, the plotting and intent to murder, since that took place in his own country as well as ours. That and the physical assault of his servant. He’ll be imprisoned back in Accordo.”   
  
“Well, I suppose we can’t hold him permanently ourselves,” Clarus muttered. “Not if we want to incite a diplomatic incident. Considering he seems to have contacts in Niflheim, it might be all the encouragement they need to start acting up again.”   
  
Regis nodded tiredly, letting out a sigh as he pressed his head back into the pillows. He had slept all night, most likely thanks to the painkillers they had rushing in him now, but he still felt so exhausted, like he could sleep for weeks.   
  
“Your Majesty?” Cor asked.   
  
“Yes,” Regis said. “So be it. I’ll leave the arrangements to the both of you.”   
  
They nodded in return.   
  
“What of the rest of the situation?” Regis asked. “That wine was being served all weekend. Both at dinner and up at the party, correct? Was there any further contamination?”   
  
Clarus was the one who answered. “Every bottle has been taken in and tested; the only one which was contaminated with the drug was the one Christos had in his room, which he also had kept in his flask.”   
  
“A risky move,” Regis frowned. “If he had forgotten which bottle it was and it had been taken before he could get to it, then his whole plan would have been for naught.”   
  
“Not necessarily,” Clarus said. “The label on the bottle he had, it was the only one to have a slight misprint, small enough that it was barely noticeable at first when we looked at it. My guess would be that it was done on purpose, possibly by whoever in Niflheim gave it to him, for easy identification. That way he could locate it and take it before anyone else could.”   
  
Regis hummed thoughtfully. That sounded possible, and it wasn’t necessarily an unheard of tactic. It still left him with a bitter taste in his mouth and a chill running down the back of his neck. Just how long had Christos been planning this? How much effort had he gone to so that he could carry out this act of revenge?  
  
“Furthermore, we have no other casualties, and no other reports of Christos using that device on anyone else.” Cor said. “All in all, I think this is something we can walk away from.”   
  
Clarus smirked. “Some of us, at least.”   
  
Regis smiled back weakly, glancing down at his broken leg, now heavily encased in a protective cast.   
  
A soft knock on the open door had them all turning, and Regis jerked upright a little when he saw Noctis standing in the doorway with a weak smile.   
  
“Hey,” he said as he stepped inside, eyeing Cor and Clarus. “Mind if I talk to Dad for a moment?”   
  
They were getting up before he had even finished the question, bowing their heads. “Certainly,” Clarus said. “We have things to attend to anyway.”   
  
“It’s good to see you on your feet,” Cor said.   
  
Noctis smiled again, a little self-conscious. “Thanks.”   
  
Regis could barely pay attention as the two of them left, pulling the door behind them so it was left ajar. He was too busy focused on Noctis’s face. The swelling had gone down thanks to the healing magic, but it had also sped up the bruising process, and now his skin was covered, dark marks that ran across his eyes and his cheeks and spread down to his jaw. An array of purple and blue and brown, they looked livid and _painful_ , and he almost winced at the sight of them.   
  
There were bruises on his throat too, perfectly matching the shape of Regis’s hands.   
  
“Stop looking at me like that,” Noctis muttered as he came closer. He sat down in the chair Clarus had vacated, eyes on Regis. “How’re you doing?”   
  
Regis stared back at him, almost unable to believe his ears. “I should be asking you that.”   
  
Noctis grinned a little. “Well, I asked you first.”   
  
“Tired,” Regis answered.   
  
Noctis was looking at his broken leg, eyes running up and down the white cast with an unreadable expression. “Not in any pain?”   
  
“No,” Regis smiled. “They’re giving me drugs for that. There is no pain.”   
  
“Good. That’s good.”   
  
Regis swallowed, unable to stop himself from looking over those bruises again and the stab of remorse that came along with it. “And you? How are you feeling? Should you really be out of bed?”   
  
“Yeah, I’ve been given the all clear,” Noctis nodded, scratching at the back of his head. “The only stuff I’ve got now are the bruises, and they don’t hurt that much. Doctor said I can rest up in my own room. Ignis is gonna have a field day hovering over me.”   
  
Regis found himself chuckling a little. “I can imagine,” he said. “I must say, he and Gladiolus both performed well last night. They contributed greatly to the investigation. You should be proud of them.”   
  
“Yeah, I heard they went all detective on us.” Noctis snorted. “It’s a funny image. Hey, did you hear Ignis punched Christos?”   
  
“Yes, I heard.” Regis smiled reluctantly. Of course he had. Clarus had wanted to know where Christos’s broken nose had come from, and Gladiolus had apparently been shameless and without regret of his comrade’s actions. While perhaps a little unprofessional, Regis couldn’t necessarily blame Ignis for his moment of anger. He had always been rather protective of Noctis.   
  
The thought brought up his guilt again, and it cut through him. They could only dance around the subject for so long, and so Regis let out a sigh, dread sinking deep into his stomach as he said, “Noct—”   
  
“Don’t.”   
  
He blinked, looking up again. “Pardon?”   
  
“I said don’t,” Noctis answered, watching him carefully, eyes serious. “If the next words out of your mouth are an apology, then I don’t wanna hear it.”   
  
“How can you say that?” Regis asked, voice hushed, and he could only stare at his son with a little awe. There was no blame in those eyes, no anger, no hate. How could Noctis _not_ feel those things towards him after last night? How could he not loathe him in some way, even just a little? “Noctis, I _hurt_ you, in the worst way. Why should I not apologise for that?”   
  
Noctis swallowed thickly, shaking his head. “‘Cause it wasn’t you,” he said. When Regis opened his mouth to protest, he said, “No. Dad, it _wasn’t you_. I can’t blame you for things beyond your control.”   
  
Regis looked away, down at his lap, feeling that stab of guilt and self-loathing again. Why was everyone set on removing the blame from him when it had been his own two hands? He was supposed to be strong, a _king_. How could he claim to protect an entire kingdom from their enemies when he couldn’t protect his own son from himself?   
  
“Dad—”   
  
“I should have done something to stop it.”   
  
“There was _nothing_ you could do,” Noctis insisted. “You were drugged and forced to do what Christos wanted. Ignis told me all about it. It was powerful stuff.”   
  
“I hurt you,” Regis repeated, because it was the only thing that mattered.   
  
Noctis stared at him, then sighed, almost exasperatedly, getting up from the chair and coming closer to sit on the edge of Regis’s bed, mindful of his broken leg. “Yeah, maybe it was your body,” he said gently, “but it wasn’t _you_. We might’ve had our differences before, but I know that you’d never _willingly_ hurt me, not ever.”   
  
Regis could only look up at him.   
  
Noctis grimaced a little. “Please tell me you’re not gonna tear yourself apart over this forever.”   
  
“I think I might,” Regis smiled grimly. “What sort of father would I be if I didn’t?”   
  
Noctis sighed and nodded, lowering his gaze for a moment. Then he reached out, awkwardly, patting his hand against Regis’s. “We’re _good_ ,” he said, eyes coming back up to meet Regis’s, and they were so earnest it was almost painful. “I get the final say in this, and I say we’re good. I’m not gonna let one single night ruin everything, and you shouldn’t either. Okay?”   
  
So much trust and faith he had in him, almost like blind loyalty. It was touching, settled something within his chest, a deep relief at the fact that Noctis wouldn’t _hate_ him over this. “Okay,” Regis echoed, barely able to get the word out past the thick lump in his throat. Noctis was at an arm’s length here, and so Regis reached out with both hands, let his fingers press against those bruised cheeks, ready to call his magic to the surface.   
  
Noctis leaned back however, frowning. “What are you doing?”   
  
Regis paused. “Healing you.” He smiled weakly. “Consider it my repentance.”   
  
Noctis let out an annoyed huff, glancing down at his broken leg. “How about you heal yourself? You don’t need to be laid up like this.” He eyed Regis carefully then, all too knowing, too smart for his own good. “Or is that part of it too?”   
  
Perhaps it was stupid, but— “I should suffer the consequences of my actions.”   
  
“That is such bullshit, _god_ ,” he said, and before Regis could admonish him for his language, Noctis was grabbing his hands and moving them towards the cast. “Heal _yourself_. Consider _that_ your repentance, you damn drama queen.”   
  
Well then. Noctis stared him down, eyes fierce and determined, and who was Regis to refuse him? He let out a sigh, calling his magic to the surface once more, letting it build until it poured out and into his leg to heal the bone. Noctis kept his hands pressed to the cast, trapping them there, leaving him no choice but to heal himself, and he had to wonder if he could feel the magic too, if he could sense it prickling along his skin.   
  
“That’s better,” Noctis said after a moment, pulling away. “Keep healing it whenever you can, okay? I _will_ be checking up on it.”   
  
Regis leaned back against the pillows, exhausted again. “Very well,” he sighed. “If that’s what you want.”   
  
Noctis nodded. “It is.”   
  
Regis could only stare at him with an affectionate smile, his chest warm and so full of love for this boy. How lucky he was, to be forgiven for such atrocious acts, and so easily, so wholeheartedly at that. He wasn’t sure what he had done to deserve such a thing, but he was so grateful it nearly hurt.   
  
Noctis was shifting awkwardly again, self-conscious and embarrassed the way he sometimes became in the face of Regis’s open affection. Regis took pity on him, smiling with amusement as he said, “Technically, shouldn’t I be called a drama _king_?”   
  
Noctis groaned at him, and he couldn’t help it, Regis started laughing.   
  
“You’re awful,” Noctis said, but he was smiling too, tired and bruised, but genuine, and it was all Regis could ask for.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SMALL TRIVIA:
> 
> I literally only wrote a 28K fic just so I could have a good enough excuse to have Regis beating on Noct ahahahaha *back-flipping into that sweet hellfire*
> 
> I've said it before on tumblr, and I'll say it again, you do not know how _badly_ I wanted Prompto's dialogue in the first chapter to be "YoU sUcK aT FiGHtING gAMeS", because you _know_ he would overuse the Eos equivalent of the mocking spongebob meme (mocking cactuar maybe???).
> 
> Also *heavy cough* while writing this, I _totally_ forgot the actual layout of the throne room, and so it's a little bit off in this fic. By the time I realised, that scene had already been written and cemented into the fic and I couldn't be bothered to change it lol. DON'T THINK ABOUT IT OKAY?? Okay  <3
> 
> This fic was unbeta'd and so all mistakes are my own. I've caught a few and gone back to edit some, but there may be more. Feel free to point anything out!
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> You can find me at [tumblr](https://ivorydice.tumblr.com).


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